


Darkness Upon the Land

by esama



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassin Bilbo Baggins, Canonical Character Death, Codependency, M/M, Murder, Not A Fix-It, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-02 03:57:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 51,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13309920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: Bilbo stays in Erebor and watches over it from Thorin's shadow.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed

Bilbo stays in Erebor.

It's not much of a decision. In his delirious fever dreams, his mind plagued by paranoia and fear, Thorin grasps his hand and begs him to stay and not leave his sight and just like that, Bilbo can't. So much heart break has been strung about and so much blood spilled and so many evil words spoken – and yet that open, almost desperate relief on Thorin's face undoes him, when he says, "Yes, of course, I'm not going anywhere."

It's a decision he knows he will come to regret – he already does, in small part – but it's also one he can't undo now. That small glimpse of radiance in Thorin's eyes on Raven Hill and now this terribly frail hope in his face, it's too much – after all the darkness they are painfully precious. Bilbo leans into these glimpses of light like leaf that has been left in shadow, basking in the goodness he'd known to be there since Misty Mountains, but which had been wearing increasingly thin in Erebor. It is there now, in Thorin's face and in his hand as their fingers slide together regardless of the blood spilled between and Bilbo knows he can never rest for the risk of having it extinguished again.

If him remaining in Erebor will make Thorin smile, make his eyes light up and the troubles of his mind ease even for a moment, then Bilbo will stay, damn him, he will stay. "I'll stay," he says. "For as long as you'll have me, Thorin, of course I will stay with you."

"Thank you," Thorin whispers with such heartfelt relief that it breaks Bilbo's heart. " _Thank you_."

Bilbo swallows the ache in his heart and nods and watches as Thorin lapses at last into a healing slumber, the promise extracted and accepted and confirmed. And so Bilbo is rooted on spot, waiting for Thorin to wake again.

* * *

 

The first day after the Battle of Five Armies is chaos and misery. It's cacophony of cries of wounded and grieving as the battlefield is cleared and the death toll tallied. Many had died, hundreds, and thousands of orcs besides. The wounded are gathered in tents of healing for dwarven and elven healers to do what they can for them, while the dead are laid out, identified, and mourned over.

They wait on Thorin to see what would be done to the dead, though – Dáin Ironfoot wants his men and women to be entombed in Erebor, befitting of their sacrifice of the mountain, and Bard tentatively hopes his people might afforded the same honour as they have no notion of where to bury their dead in Dale yet. Thranduil on other hand gathers his dead and sends them to the Greenwood. Bilbo half expects to see the Elven King and his army leave with them – but only a small contingent of elves departs. The rest stay and make camp in Dale.

"There are still issues to be addressed," the Elven King says coolly and he means Thorin and Erebor and promises to be kept.

All eyes lay on the tents of healing now, on Thorin's tent in particular. It's a splendid construction of dark blue with silver tassels, marked by the sigils of the House of Durin – someone had brought it from Erebor, Bilbo thinks, Balin probably. It's heated with a brazier of hot embers, where servants occasionally add more charcoal to. Where they get the charcoal, Bilbo doesn't know – perhaps Dáin's people brought it from Iron Hills.

He hopes Dáin shares it with the people of Dale in their broken houses that no doubt lack any form of heating what so ever – but he doesn't go look. He doesn't leave Thorin's side unless absolutely necessary, and even then he does his business as quickly as possible so that he may quickly return. He doesn't pay much attention to what happens outside the tent – though his presence at Thorin's side makes him privy to many a conversation he doubts he should be over hearing.

Balin and Óin, discussing Thorin madness, "Be best if something was done about the hoard of gold and quickly too," Óin says grimly. "It's the glimmer of it that's the worst of it, and if Thorin lays his eyes on it again, it might bring it all back."

"I've taken the liberty of having the hoard broken up," Balin says, even grimmer. "Dáin's most trusted men are packing it all up in chests with the clans Ri and Ur keeping watch, and your brother is orchestrating the whole thing. It's being stored in seven corners of Erebor. It will take few more days, but hopefully we'll get it done before he wakes."

"Good, that is good," Óin says. "Still, it bears watching. Once fallen, he may lapse again."

"Bilbo will be keeping an eye on him," Balin says and looks to him with a smile that sits awkward and sorry on his face. "Won't you, laddie?"

It sounds like sentence, rather than request, but Bilbo nods anyway – it is not as if he's going to be doing anything else. "I think the worst is behind him now," he says, thinking to Raven Hill, to those words Thorin had spoken to him with what he thought was his last breath. "But I will keep watch regardless."

Then there is Bard and the Arkenstone. Dáin and Bard argue about it over Thorin's resting body in hushed voices, "The birthright of our people, the right of the King – you've no right to keep it, Lake-man," Dáin mutters.

"It was given to us as insurance for your King's word, seeing as he wasn't looking to keep it on his own," Bard answers. "When Thorin gives us what he promised us in Lake-town, he may have the stone – and not sooner."

"Thorin was _sick_ , his actions weren't made in right mind," Dáin says bitterly.

"I've heard much of this dragon sickness and I sympathise," Bard says, though he doesn't sound like he truly does. "But I dearly hope it won't remain your excuse from here on out when your King fails to honour his word. You say Thorin Oakenshield is recovered from it, and it'll be glad tidings in deed if he's come to his senses – but I won't trust it until I see the proof of it myself. The Arkenstone remains with me until then."

Bard leaves with a nod to Bilbo who nods back, his head bowed a little. Some of this his fault. He doesn't and does regret it all at once – it had not gone like he'd wished to, Thorin's madness has gone even beyond his most keen desire for the Arkenstone and all his terrible trade had wrought was more sorrow. Would he do it again if he knew the result? No. But he would still try to do something, possibly something similar.

"Blast these men," Dáin mutters and comes to Thorin's side. "And blast the gold sickness and blast you too, Hobbit, for bringing this all upon us."

Bilbo bows his head. "I only did what I could to try and solve the issue," he says. "I hoped that if his honour would not see his words kept, then his family's right to the Arkenstone would demand it… It made sense to me, at the time."

"Bah," Dáin says and runs a hand over his forehead, peering at Thorin's pale face. "Backed into a corner with army at his doorstep is not time for sense for any dwarf, never mind one laid low by Dragon Sickness. You may expect no sense from a dwarf besieged by enemies, Master Burglar. Even were he sensible, he would've never bend to their demands."

Bilbo frowns. "But it would've ended the conflict if he had," he says and looks up. "Surely peace would have been worth it."

Dáin scoffs at him and then sits down in the awaiting bench in clatter of armour and steel. "Peace at the price of humiliation," he says in disgust. "Maybe you bend your heads low in the Shire and grovel in dirt for peace, but we dwarves _fight_ for ours. Imagine it, your compliance demanded at arrow point and sword tip, with stolen goods in your opponents hands – imagine the weakness of it, to bend such underhanded demand! I can't think shame worse than that."

"So it's better to die than to be shamed?" Bilbo asks, appalled. "Better to see your friends and loved ones slain, than to bow your head in humility?"

"For a dwarf, _yes_ , Master Burglar," Dáin says darkly and gives him a look. Some of his expression eases at the face of his and the Dwarf Lord sighs. "But Thorin broke his word first. It's a damned shameful thing to do, to promise any a man aid and then go back on that in their time of need. It's a difficult pit to climb from."

Bilbo swallows. "He'll have help," he says firmly and looks down to his hand, again entwined in Thorin's. "He'll have help now."

"Aye, I see he will," Dáin says, peering him over. "I just hope that help don't come at the cost of whatever pride and honour he has left. A humbled Lord might be a sensible one to you, but for a dwarf it's a weak Lord that bows his knee to Kings of others. It was not properly done, none of it, and if Thorin now wakes only to humble himself to uncrowned king of men of kingdom in ruins and the Elven _pisspot_ – it's a shame he will never rise above, I think. His people mightn't ever respect him again, never mind his victory over Azog."

Bilbo swallows and bows his head and says nothing.

In that first day, those wounded that can be saved are saved and the ones that cannot be, die. Fíli and Kíli, the bright dwarven princes and Thorin's heirs, are carried on dwarven shields to Erebor to wait their entombment in stone – their right to it undisputed, at least. The orcs in meanwhile are gathered and buried – for the lack of wood to burn them on – in unmarked mass graves as far from Erebor as those tasked with the grim duty can take them. Azog and Bolg, Bilbo learns later, are buried similarly amongst the bodies of their kin, unmarked and unhonoured to be forgotten far from where they fell.

Light shines on Dale that day, cold light of late autumn and early winter, and air grows cold with the oncoming frost. Stroking Thorin's large hand Bilbo wonders about the winters of Erebor, wonders how cold it would get. Wonders, how the people of Dale would manage it.

The Company visit their leader in turns – though Balin is there more than not, coming and going, and Óin is never far. Dwalin has taken up the task of wrangling the security of Erebor – despite being kin he cannot trust Dáin's people to not try and make off with the gold of Erebor, so he frisks everyone who passes through the gates of the mountain with rough hand, it seems. He sees Thorin early that morning and then late that evening, busy with his self imposed duties in between.

"Any change, laddie?" the big dwarf asks, resting a hand on Bilbo's shoulder.

"They say if he makes through the night, he will have good chance living," Bilbo says.

"Then make sure he does," Dwalin says and his big fingers dig into Bilbo's shoulder, half assurance and half a threat. "You make sure he's here come morning." Or else.

Bilbo swallows and nods.

Glóin has been similarly busy all day long, and comes in to give his report late as well. In lack of Thorin's attention, he reports to Bilbo, to have his words relayed to Thorin the moment he wakes. "We're half way through the horde, and have been keeping count," he says. "We've been putting five thousand coins per chest, which is just about as much as we can move around easily. So far we've got ninety eight chests. Four hundred and ninety thousand coins, so far and we just ran out of chests."

They're numbers too big for Bilbo to even wrap his head around – but then, so was the massive size of the actual hoard. "H-how much do you think there is in the whole hoard?"

"Around million coins, we think," Glóin admits. "This not counting the gems and jewellery, mind you. There's lot of that too. We've been setting it aside for now, because the coins take priority."

Over million coins – fourteenth of which would've gone to Bilbo had he not done what he had. Good grief, its wealth enough to ruin anyone.

"We've kept watch – not a single coin has been stolen, not a single gem pilfered," Glóin says very firmly. "It'll all be there, when his Majesty wakes – just separated into smaller chunks in save vaults, rather than all of it laid out there in the throne room."

"That's good," Bilbo says. "But if you ran out of chests, what will you do with the rest?"

"We're thinking carts," Glóin admits with a sigh. "From the mines – we'll be able to move them around, though not as easily as chest you can carry. We'll get it done by tomorrow, at any rate. After that, we'll sort the gold jewellery – and then the Hall of Ancestors."

Bilbo gives him a confused look.

"Where we spilled the molten gold to try and stop Smaug," Glóin says. "It spilled on the floor and hall now has a nice golden patina. None can exactly run off with it right now, so we're safe leaving it for the last. We'll break it up and sort it out eventually, though – Balin says it's too dangerous to be left, with dragon stink all over it."

The whole matter of the gold makes Bilbo's head spin and he's more than happy to leave it to the dwarves, as nervous as it makes him feel. They might've not fallen into the depths of madness Thorin had, but they'd all been enthralled by the gold, and he can't help but feel it's dangerous, to leave them to their devices concerning it. But… Balin and Óin are keeping an eye about, Glóin is managing the numbers with extreme prejudice and Dwalin is brutally and meticulously guarding the rest, so… hopefully it would be fine.

Bofur, Bifur and Bombur come together, before the gates of Erebor close for the night. "We'll be setting up a watch in the front for the night, us and some of Lord Dáin's lot," Bofur says while looking on Thorin. "How is he doing?"

"He's sleeping," Bilbo says. "They say his colour is looking better."

"That's good," Bofur says and takes his hat off to scratch at his hair while Bifur says something in Khuzdul and Bombur carries in a tray laden with food.

"For the King – and if he ain't waking, for you," the rotund dwarf says and lays the tray on bench near Bilbo. "Hear you've not been eating much."

"I hadn't even noticed," Bilbo says. He doesn't feel particularly hungry. "How goes things in the mountain?"

"It's the damnest thing, that gold," Bofur admits, sighing. "Plays tricks on your mind – swear I could hear the Dragon time or dozen down there, rumbling in the caves. Sooner we're done with the sorting out the better."

Bifur grumbles in agreement.

"Glóin told me it's at least million coins," Bilbo says warily.

"Aye, and twice as much other stuff beside," Bofur agrees and looks at his brothers. "Hundred thousand gold per head, at least. Can you imagine it?"

Bifur scowls and Bombur sneaks a pastry off the tray he brought in, shoving it into his mouth.

"What will you do with it?" Bilbo asks.

"What will you?" Bofur asks, arching his brows.

"I've accounted for my share in the Arkenstone," Bilbo says and looks away. "None of it will go to me." Which is rather how he prefers it, at this point. So much trouble and devastation and misery had been caused by that accursed gold – the less he sees of it, the better.

Bofur frowns thoughtfully and then shakes his head. "We'll sort it all out when himself wakes up," he says, and looks at Thorin. "Balin thinks it's too much, though, a fourteenth share of it – or even eleventh. It's a kingdom's share of gold – too much for any single dwarf."

Bilbo frowns. "But that was the agreement," he says. "That was the contract." Surely they wouldn't be tampering with the contract behind Thorin's back, not when everything was based on it.

"Aye, but we didn't think we'd really get it all," Bofur points out. "Our quest was for the Arkenstone, and maybe some small spoils of fortune if we were lucky. We none of us thought we'd get the actual golden hoard of Erebor, not even Glóin. We didn't think what it'd mean if we did." He sighs. "Hard thing to wrap your head around, that much gold. We daren't take our share now, not without Thorin. Even Glóin knows better, I think."

Well, that's a relief, Bilbo thinks

The brothers Ri come in after the Ur clan – Dori and Nori looking tired from the work they'd done in the mountain and Ori still nursing an injury he got during the battle.

"I've been keeping track of the jewellery and gemstones and such," Ori tells him. "I like looking at them better than the gold. Think if I can choose, I'd rather have my share in gems than gold."

"That's mighty wise of you," Bilbo says gently.

They report their work with shifting the gold the same as the Ur clan had, telling about the clearing out of the throne hall and their immense relief that the dragon had lived cleanly in the hall.

"Mind you, we did find piles which will be damn nuisance to take care off, but none with the gold," Nori mutters. "The dragon kept the gold clean, thank Mahal."

"Only he didn't. It's witchcraft, that gold," Dori mutters. "The way it glitters and gleams, toys with your head it does. Gives you a headache, to look away."

It's good to know the dwarves are aware of the allure of it, and watchful about it. If Dáin's people are similarly watchful, Bilbo doesn't know, but hopefully the company is watchful enough for all of them

The last one to see Thorin is Gandalf, who comes in the late hours of the night when the fires are burning low and Bilbo is replenishing the charcoal in the brazier. "The worst is behind him, I think," the Wizard says, after checking Thorin over and murmuring spells over his face. "Keep him warm and get water into him when ever you can and feed him when he wakes, and I think he might yet pull through."

Bilbo nods and after making sure the heat is spreading to the cooler pieces of charcoal, he moves back to Thorin's side, adjusting the furs thrown over his feet to keep him warm. "Fíli and Kíli," he says then.

"There was nothing to be done for them – their deaths were near instantaneous and no magic on this Middle Earth could have saved them," Gandalf says grimly and looks at him. "You know it was a suicide, what they did. They came from the mountain to meet their deaths head on – none of them expected to survive. It's a miracle so many did."

"It's not a miracle that Thorin's nephews died," Bilbo mutters.

"No, it is not," Gandalf agrees grimly. "And there will be great mourning over the heirs of Durin, may they rest forever in the warmth of Aulë's forge. But it was not unexpected."

Bilbo says nothing, not entirely sure what the point of it was. He'd seen them, on the battlefield – the great armours they wore before shed for lighter gear. Thorin, blast him, had barely worn mail at Raven Hill, nothing to protect him. Fools, foolhardy suicidal fools, the lot of them, and what a price they paid for it. None of it's right, none of it's fair.

"And what of you, Bilbo Baggins?" Gandalf asks, leaning to his staff. "What becomes of you now?"

"I have no idea," Bilbo admits and looks at Thorin's hand in his, stroking his thumb over the toughened skin of his knuckles. "For as long as I'm welcome, I will remain here."

"Your home is in the Shire," Gandalf says.

Yes, and Bilbo feels a terrible yearning at the thought of it, of bag end and his armchair and books and soft rolling hills of green where no death occurred but at the hand of time and nature. "My place now is by Thorin's side," he says. "He made me promise and for as long as he needs me, I will stay."

Gandalf hums deep in his throat. "And if it is to be forever?" he asks, his expression inscrutable.

"Then I will embrace immortality gladly," Bilbo says, trying for a joke, though it falls terribly flat. He looks up at Gandalf and then sighs and looks away. "I know I will never know peace, not knowing how Thorin is doing. I must be here, Gandalf."

"You care deeply," Gandalf says, and he sounds sad. "I hope Thorin returns your high regard, though I fear it might be both your downfall. You are very different people, Bilbo Baggins, and I know this journey has brought you great grief. I'd hate to see it grow any deeper than it already has."

Too late for that, Bilbo muses and takes Thorin's hand in his again. "It has brought me happiness too, and sense of… life I don't think I would have ever felt, otherwise," he says. "You were right – world is not in my books and maps. It's here, and I'm glad to have experienced it."

Gandalf nod, though he still looks more sad than happy for him. "I wish you well then, and may the dwarves be kind to you," he says. "For I will give them quite the piece of my mind if they are not."

Bilbo smiles gratefully at that, and no more is said on the subject.

* * *

 

Thorin wakes up just as midnight turns to morning, and new day begins to dawn. He is confused at first, looking around in soft alarm until his eyes find Bilbo at his side and the startled breath he drew turns into a sigh. "You're here," he says, his voice low and still soft with lingering sleepiness. "You're still here."

"Yes," Bilbo says and smiles. "I'm not going anywhere, Thorin – I promised I wouldn't."

Thorin looks up at him with shining wonder and something in Bilbo's chest unclenches. "Good," he says and their fingers slide together. "I need you here."

Bilbo's throat clenches and he breathes in and out and smiles wider. "I'll stay for as long as you'll have me."

And if it would break him apart piece by piece, then so be it.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Thorin wants to do after rising from his sickbed, still badly wounded and shaking with every step, is to see his nephews. Bilbo shadows him as Dwalin and Balin support him to the tent where they're kept, watching the people around them, watching Thorin.

It would've made things easier, if Thorin had died.

He's heard it whispered somewhere behind him, possibly by Thranduil, maybe by some dwarves of Ironhills. Thorin hadn't made a good showing of himself in his fit of madness and there are issues that now only grow more complicated with his awakening. The Mad King, like his Father before him, like his Grandfather before them both, lain low instantly his eyes landed upon gold – with promises made and then broken, oaths sworn and then not beholden to…

Still, people remove their helmets and hats in deference as Thorin passes them by, bowing their heads. It's more begrudging on some faces than others, but still Thorin is given respect he is owed to, as the King of Longbeards. Bilbo isn't sure if it's a good sign or not, that Thorin pays them no mind even as his shoulders grow tense and his face grows grim.

"Bilbo," Thorin says, and Bilbo quickly hastens his steps so that he's once more in Thorin's field of view. Thorin glances at him and relaxes again and together they step into the tent where the Heirs of Durin lie.

Fíli and Kíli have been cleaned, their clothes changed into unbroken tunics and trousers with no blood spilled on them – they lay on cots with white sheets over them and candles burning on every corner. When Thorin reaches for him over Balin's shoulder, Bilbo takes his hand and with Dwalin supports him the last few steps between the cots.

Slowly and respectfully, Balin draws the sheets from the young dwarves' faces, revealing first Fíli and then Kíli.

Bilbo's heart throbs for a moment as Thorin's hand clenches on his, putting pressure on it as Thorin tries to move forward. With and arm around Thorin's waist, Bilbo does what he can to support him as Dwalin slides back, releasing Thorin. Together, the King Under the Mountain and the Burglar of his company look upon their fallen.

For a moment, the silence stretches as Thorin looks on one face and then another, his face hard and unreadable. "Leave us," Thorin then says, his voice rough, and Balin and Dwalin exchange a look.

"You have him, laddie?" Dwalin asks – or rather mouths at him – over Thorin's shoulder.

Bilbo isn't entirely sure he does – Thorin weights a lot and can't seem to support himself just yet. He nods anyway, and Dwalin and Balin bow out of the tent, leaving them in the dim candle light amongst the dead.

"My Sister-Sons," Thorin whispers, once they're alone. "My heirs. It was for their sake as much as it was for the sake of my people that I embarked on this accursed quest, and now at the end of it, they're gone from me. The home I wished to give them will be their tomb instead."

Bilbo eases Thorin's arm over his shoulder in faint hope of keeping him upright and says nothing – he can't even say it's not in some part Thorin's fault. Sure, the attack of the orcs hadn't been Thorin's intent but as Gandalf said… the dwarves of Erebor has launched from the mountain in suicidal assault. And Thorin's lapse to madness certainly hadn't helped.

"They will be buried in the halls of kings, amidst my ancestors," Thorin decides, and reaches for Fíli shakily. "The honour bestowed upon their tombs will know no bound, and they will find their way to Mahal's side, and find shelter by his forge."

He bows his head, resting a hand first on Fíli's forehead and then reaching for Kíli, murmuring words of Khuzdul that Bilbo can't understand. Then he looks at down Bilbo, his expression lost.

"What becomes of me now, Bilbo?" he asks. "What becomes of the Mad King Under the Mountain?"

"He rest and he will heal," Bilbo says and draws a breath. "And in time he will get better and know what to do." At least he hopes so, oh Valar above and beyond, does he hope.

"Will I?" Thorin almost begs. "My line lies in ruins, my heirs lost – my rule is not assured."

Bilbo swallows. It's one of those big royal dwarven things he can't quite wrap his head around – though he does understand enough to know that a king ought to have heirs and Thorin has none, now. "Right now I doubt anyone will start a fight with you over it," he says – that would hardly be honourable, with Thorin sickly. "Right now your priority is to heal and get better. The rest will come as it will."

"And in the mean while the men and elves roam about my halls and pilfer my wealth, and Dáin vies for his chance usurp," Thorin sighs and bends his head. "I am weak now, Bilbo, I haven't a fight left in me. They may do whatever they wish and I cannot do a thing to stop it now."

Bilbo swallows and then tightens his hand on Thorin's. "Men and elves haven't set a foot on the mountain, your Company has seen to it. Dáin is your cousin and he's head strong and blunt but he's not cruel or unkind. He wouldn't take the mountain from you," he says firmly – though he doesn't know Dáin that well, the dwarf lord doesn't seem as spiteful as to steal the rule from his own family, weakened or not. "And if you can't fight them then I'll fight them for you. I still have my little dagger and a fine shirt of Mithril – it's plenty enough to stand in your defence, I think."

That, finally, brings a smile to Thorin's face. "A fine hobbit champion I have," he says and the smile shakes a little, but it's real and honest and bright for all that it's so fleeting. "I could not ask for a better one."

Thorin's brow touches his and for a moment they stand there, brow to brow with Fíli and Kíli on each side, watchful dead over the shaking, mourning living. "Would you, Bilbo?" Thorin asks quietly, his eyes shut. "Would you, really?"

"Anything," Bilbo swears. "Though I do need you to tell me what you actually want of me."

"Stand for me against the elves and men," Thorin says and opens his eyes. "Would you?"

Bilbo shakes his head at him. He hardly even needs to ask, at this point. "If it's what you want, then yes. Of course."

Thorin nods and then wavers. "In that case," he says. "I do believe I need to lie down now. I can't feel my knees."

Bilbo yelps in alarm and Balin and Dwalin get back in the tent just in time to catch the King Under the Mountain before he crashes down.

* * *

 

He made the promise without second thought and does not regret it – even though it turns out he did not know what he promised. To stand for Thorin against elves and men, Bilbo assumed he would do what he has done so far – stay at Thorin's side and make sure none bother him. Balin tells him, gently but grimly, that it is not quite so simple.

"Thorin has named you his Speaker," Balin says and shows him a document Thorin and Balin have quickly sketched out while Bilbo hadn't been there – possibly while he'd been asleep. "His Spokesman. You have the authority to speak on his behalf now, to even make decisions with his authority, until he says otherwise. You are, in power, kin to the King Under the Mountain now."

Bilbo stares at the document – the contract, another bloody contract – which only waits for his signature to be proper. "Surely not," he says in alarm. "Thorin couldn't have meant it that way."

"Oh, he did," Balin says and gives him a look, scrutinizing and meaningful all at once, as he offers the contract.

"Is he still… affected, then? This can't be sensible," Bilbo says, accepting the parchment warily and looking it over.

_To Bilbo Baggins with the authority of the King Under the Mountain and the King of Durin's folk is bequeath the authority of the Speaker of the King. He is to speak on the Behalf of the King and faithfully and respectful represent the King's will…_

Bilbo shakes his head. "Surely this is your job."

"I am the king's advisor," Balin says. "I advice him with my knowledge and opinion and hopefully wisdom too might some be found, but I cannot wield authority on his behalf. My station prevents it – counsellor is by definition a position of bias."

"I don't understand," Bilbo admits.

"Thorin chose me as counsellor because I have opinions that sometimes, often, go against his own," Balin explains. "I am the rock he throws his thoughts at, to see what sticks. As such, I would not wield his power in accordance to his will, because we don't always agree on how things ought to be."

"But I don't share his opinions either," Bilbo scoffs. "I'm more against his nonsense than you are!"

"True," Balin says and just looks at him for a moment, watching his face. "Thorin chose you, Bilbo," he then says, with enormous weight of meaning on the words. "He might've not been at his best when he did, but he did it for a reason."

Bilbo lowers his eyes at that and for a moment wavers between willingness to do anything and everything he could for Thorin – and the knowledge that this was completely mad. He speaking for Thorin – and certainly he's done that before, but not… not like this.

Bilbo rubs at his forehead. "Well," he says and looks at Balin. "Being counsellor with differing opinions and all that – what is your opinion, then?"

Balin rocks back on his heels, considering him. "It's not done, but it might not be bad way to go about this," he says finally. "Thorin is sickly and we've yet to figure out for certain if the madness lingers. You are no dwarf, no, neither are you a nobleman from a dwarven court – but you are a gentlehobbit, and a practical one at that. I know your will to be of iron and your reason to be sound, most of the time. More than that, though, it's a neat solution to Thorin's main issue now."

"Which is?" Bilbo asks warily.

"His honour – or lack there of," Balin says, pressing his lips tight together for a moment and then shaking his head. "He promised things to the Lake-men and then broke that promise – and Dáin might argue about honour and being backed into corner all he likes, he's not wrong but that doesn't make much a difference. We're dealing with men and elves, they think differently from us dwarves. They do not see a king holding onto his fortunes at the face of righteous demands as a strong one – they see him as a greedy one. And I cannot deny that Thorin was that."

Bilbo bows his head, eying the contract. _Signed with sound mind and clear conscience, Thorin the Second, King of Durin's Folk, King Under the Mountain, Oakenshield,_ he reads and runs his thumb over Thorin's graceful signature.

"It's a difficult situation," Balin says. "Thorin gave his word and broke it and he can now go back on neither without weakening himself further. But he gave his word… on the weight of _yours_ , first."

"I'm sorry?" Bilbo asks and then recalls. "You mean, in Lake-town…"

"You gave the men of Lake-town your promise that Thorin's word was good," Balin says and looks at him meaningfully. "One might very well say that his honour now hangs in the balance of yours – you even have the power to right the wrong he did. And better yet… you are no dwarf."

Bilbo eyes him. "And so, if I bow my head to the men of Lake-town and the elves…" he says. "It's no slight upon Thorin."

"Well I wouldn't go so far. If you humiliate yourself in his name, that will have its own repercussions," Balin sans and claps him on the shoulder. "But if you make deals now in his name with some semblance of honour and measure of wisdom and bring us into an agreement with our neighbours…" he arches his eyebrows. "Then it might not be so terribly bad. And if it is, then it was an ignorant hobbit that did it – and not a King of Dwarves."

Bilbo nods slowly and looks down at the paper. "Does this give me the authority to access the treasure?" he asks.

Balin smiles and grasps his shoulder consolingly. "Lad, if it doesn't, at this point I'm willing to share some of mine. We're almost done tallying it now and I have to say – be it seventy thousand or ninety thousand gold coins, it's still a little much for one old dwarf. It will be a small price to pay for peace and security in our claim to the mountain."

Bilbo swallows and nods. "Do you know how much the lakemen will want?" he asks.

Balin shakes his head. "There's another thing," he adds and looks away – to the other side of a large square formed in the camps between dwarves and elves – on the other side stands elven guard in full armour. "King Thranduil has made his demands as well, for a collection of gems in the mountain. They are themselves worth a fortune. Very nearly as much as that shirt you wear, in fact."

"The shirt I wear?" Bilbo asks and looks down. He wears the too big jacket from Lake-town, ragged and torn and dirty with mud and blood. It can't be worth more than few rusted pennies, at this point.

"The one under that," Balin says with a little laugh. "A Mithril shirt forged in Khazad-dûm, one of the few relics that survived the loss of those great halls… it's one might say it is most valuable thing under the mountain, just after the Arkenstone itself."

Bilbo gapes at him.

Balin chuckles. "Wearing it out in the open might not be a terribly bad idea. Certainly it will lend credence to your authority," he says pointedly. "But back to the diamonds Thranduil wants. Their value is high not only due to the quality of the gems themselves or the craftsmanship put into fitting them into jewellery, but due to historic value as well. They were given to Erebor to be crafted into jewellery, and there was some issue on the matter of their surrender back to Thranduil. Whether Thranduil refused to pay for the workmanship or Thrór in his madness refused to relinquish the gems, we don't know now, but they're at the root of this mess. They must be handled delicately."

"Hmm," Bilbo says, tugging at his jacket front and looking down at the collar of the Mithril shirt he wears under it. Good grief, Thorin had never given him something so terribly valuable, had he? Well… he had been mad at the time… "And I suppose handing the gems over and simply being done with the mess is not wise."

"After all the trouble, it would signify a certain weakness," Balin says, watching him. "It might be forgiven true do who and what you are but… it would still be seen as weakness."

"Hm," Bilbo answers. Examining his clothes led him to discovering how utterly filthy he is, how torn his clothes are. He's making a _terrible_ showing of himself, looking like the worst sort of vagabond imaginable. The hair on top of his feet is in tangles and his hair feels grimy and greasy and he thinks he has blood on his face. And now he needs to face men and elves and make grand decisions on trade and peace -

Balin looks at him, furry white brows arched.

"I need a bath," Bilbo says faintly, rather horrified at himself, at this situation – at the task ahead of him. "And new clothes, I think."

Balin nods slowly. "Both can be arranged," he says and then motions at the contact. "You need to sign that, first."

Bilbo looks at the contract and then nods. "Right," he says, and then hesitates. "This is temporary, I hope," he says then.

"Only for as long as it takes for Thorin to regain his strength," Balin says firmly.

"And you'll be with me there, when I face the men and elves?"

Now Balin smiles and claps his shoulder again. "If you want, laddie, I'll be there every step of the way."

Bilbo nods and then takes a breath and then reaches for the quill and ink Balin had brought with him.

* * *

 

Bilbo gets a chance to clean up with basin of heated water and a wash cloth, which he utilises furiously for good half an hour until all the dirt and muck and blood is off his skin. He even gets his hair clean before spending some time tending to his poor feet. The soles of his feet have grown tough like old leather and his toe nails are in ghastly state – he cleans them before brushing his foot hair clean and tidy.

It's not quite enough to make him feel like a proper hobbit, again, but at least he's a _clean_ one, for the first time in what feels like an age and a half.

By the time he's done, there is a set of clothing waiting for him – and Dori with it, to dress him.

"Found in Erebor, they're little old but no moths got to them and aside from smelling little stuffy they should do," the fussy dwarf says while showing him a set of dark grey slacks made in the dwarven style – little big around the calves and all too long, but even at a glance they look unbroken and warm, made of tightly woven wool. "Well put them on, so I can do the legs proper for you."

Bilbo dons the slack with little embarrassment – during the journey they've all bathed together so there's no need to be bothered about that now, at least. He's never had a dwarf to dress him, though, and Dori does more than dress him – hemming the trousers with swift and skilled stitches into more hobbitish length before showing him a long sleeved white tunic.

"No, no, Mithril over it, not under," Dori says briskly. "We want to be showing that shiny shirt to people, not hide it."

So, Bilbo pulls on the white tunic, and then pulls the Mithril shirt over it. Dori considers it while Bilbo feels patently ridiculous in the shiny metal – hoping that in the clothes Dori brought there might be a jacket or a coat to wear over the Mithril.

There isn't. Dori straps Sting's sheath to Bilbo's waist over the silver chain mail, and then, worst of all, he brings out a cape.

"Oh, surely not," Bilbo says in misery. "I'm sure I can do just with this, Dori, thank you –"

"You are Speaker of the King now," Dori says and holds the cape out. "You ought to look the part. I selected it special, it will go finely with the Mithril mail, bring out its shine. Stand still, now."

And it does go with the Mithril shirt beautifully. The cape is made of light grey fabric Bilbo can't quite identify – it's like silk, only thicker and warmer, embroidered beautifully with shimmering dwarven designs. Around the shoulders it has grey fur, light and almost silver in tone where light hits it. The cloak is heavy and utterly grandiose, and it must be worth more than Bilbo has ever spent on clothing. And he has spent _quite a deal_ on fine clothing, in his time.

Dori, muttering to himself what a shame it is, cuts the cape's hem shorter with large metal scissors and while Bilbo all but squirms in misery, he hems the cape as well, good foot of it's length removed. The result has the cloak at Bilbo's ankle length, and as Dori adjusts it drapes over his shoulders just so, warming him nicely all the while leaving the Mithril – and the elven sword – on full display.

Bilbo feels ridiculous, standing there in a cape and mail.

"If only you had longer hair, we'd put in a braid or two," Dori mutters, stroking his moustache consideringly. "Hmm, maybe Ori has found a hair clip or two that could go nicely with the shirt…"

"Thank you, Dori, I think this is quite enough," Bilbo says almost pleadingly. "I'm quite certain I'm ready to face the elves now."

"Are you?" Dori asks and gives him a look. "How about the King – are you ready to face the King?"

Bilbo looks down at himself in this shiny finery. "Thorin has seen me in worse," he points out. "Much worse."

"Mmhmm," Dori agrees dubiously. "Well go on, then, go give Thorin a whirl, see what he thinks."

Bilbo sighs and goes.

* * *

 

Thorin is talking with Dáin when Bilbo enters, feeling ludicrous in the cape and the Mithril. He wore it shirt before of course, ever since Thorin gave it to him it's been on him – but he's not worn it like this, in _display_. He feels noticeable in a way he isn't sure he likes, surrounded by the hosts of dwarves and elves and men as they are.

Thorin definitely notices him the moment he enters – and so does Dáin who looks up in mid word and then stops to stare.

"Bilbo," Thorin says and holds out a hand from the bed, palm open and welcome – and demanding. "You've been away."

"I'm sorry – I needed a wash," Bilbo goes to him and takes the hand, their fingers twining together almost on their own as Thorin pulls him closer.

"You look very fine," Thorin says, even as he reaches out his other hand to touch Bilbo's chest, running his fingers down the mail. "You should wear it like this, always."

"I should think it would get a little obnoxious, before long," Bilbo says, trying not to squirm as Thorin outlines his stomach with his big fingers. "I'm sorry I was gone for so long. How are you feeling?"

"Better now," Thorin says, looking down at the hand tracking the Mithril. "You signed the contract," he says then, drawing his eyes away from Bilbo's belly.

"I thought it was what you wanted," Bilbo says quietly.

"It is."

"Hmm," Dáin hums deep in his throat, drawing Bilbo's eyes from Thorin's to him. The Dwarf Lord looks between them, frowning. "I see," he says. "I see now."

"Dáin," Thorin says, turning to him with a frown. "I trust Bilbo Baggins with my life – and my _honour_. He's done better by it than I have, of late."

"And yet you named him a traitor not long ago from what I've heard," Dáin comments and folds his massive, metal clad arms. "A burglar and traitor, before you tried to throw him down the gates of Erebor."

Bilbo's heart throbs with pain and he grips Thorin's hand tighter.

"In madness. I took those words and those deeds back the moment I had sense," Thorin says frowning and clasping Bilbo's waist in his free hand, pulling him closer to the bed. "My company knows this, the Wizard knows this and has no doubt spread the word around – _you_ know this."

"Aye, I do. Madness caused that particular bit of theatrics," Dáin says and looks at Bilbo. "And another brand of madness is causing this, no doubt."

Bilbo sways in Thorin's hold and then rests a hand on Thorin's on his waist. "I know it's unusual," he says tentatively. "But it is only temporary. Once Thorin is well again…"

"Hrmm…" Dáin says and then leans back, looking between them. "We Durin's folk are all mad bastards in our own ways, Thorin more so than most. This," he waves a rough finger between them. "This isn't wise, Thorin."

Thorin draws a breath and then his hand on Bilbo's waist slides down. "Neither have been many of my decisions of late. Of all of them, this makes more sense than most," he says and looks up to Bilbo. "Bilbo is part of my Company and he's only done right by me. I would not have any other speaking for me."

"The last time he spoke for you he gave the Arkenstone away," Dáin reminds gruffly.

Thorin's expression falters for a moment and then he looks down. "He did," he says wearily, with a great weight of sadness.

Bilbo swallows and rests a hand on Thorin's shoulder. "With every hope that you would get it back – it and your senses – in no time at all," he says quietly. "I only hoped to spare you the war for the mountain. We were so terribly outnumbered, Thorin, it would have had only one end result."

"… yes," Thorin agrees with a sigh and looks away. "Perhaps so."

Bilbo looks down at him hesitantly as he turns away and then looks at Dáin who is frowning at them with expression full of deep concern and suspicion. "I will try to do my best represent Thorin faithfully and justly," he says. "Balin will be helping me. I will get the Arkenstone _back_ ," he says firmly. "If you allow me to try."

"Hrm," the Dwarf Lord answers, narrowing his eyes. "We shall see, shan't we?" he says and then rises to his feet in clatter of armour, grinding against itself. "You've signed the contract and your Company is seeing to it's fulfilment now, nothing much I can say about it unless I start a riot and as tempting as that is…" he shakes his head and looks at Thorin. "I will stand by you, Cousin, and see this nonsense through. But I do not approve."

"It has been noted," Thorin says wearily and closes his eyes for a moment. "But remember, _Cousin_ , who marched with me on Erebor," he says then, his voice growing harder as he opens his eyes again and looks at Dáin. "And who _did not_."

Dáin's expression tightens for a moment before he bows his head in silent agreement. Bilbo looks between them worriedly and then Thorin grasp his hand tighter. "Go, my Burglar," Thorin says and lets him go. "Go and stand for me."


	3. Chapter 3

Bilbo had stood before Bard and King Thranduil before and spoke for Thorin, in his own way. The result of that discussion hadn't been what he'd been hoping for but he'd done it, his fear of them massively outweighed by his fear for his Company and for Thorin. Now, it's different. Now, he's not so sure he can do this quite as firmly and fearlessly as before.

For one Gandalf is there, watching him from where he sits in the corner of Thranduil's tent, leaning onto a crooked staff. He says nothing but his expression is grim and unreadable as he looks Bilbo over. Dáin is there also, at Bilbo's left side while Balin stands on his right, a terribly grandiose honour guard which Bilbo isn't sure at this point is there to aid him as much as they're there to prevent him from running away. Dáin, Bilbo knows, is not happy about any of this, and he's not hiding it either, scowling at the world at large like it had done him a great wrong. Perhaps it had, too.

"What is this, then?" the Elvenking asks at the sight of them, turning from his scrolls and maps while Bard looks up, frowning.

Bilbo hesitates, not quite sure how to say it, and so Balin says it words. "His Majesty Thorin, King under the Mountain, has named Bilbo Baggins as his Speaker," Balin says, and while Thranduil's expression doesn't as much as _twitch_ , both Gandalf and Bard arch their eyebrows in astonishment.

"Hm," Thranduil says. "So the Mad King under the Mountain seeks sense in the one that betrayed him. How… likely."

"Mind your tongue, princeling," Dáin snaps. "You're speaking of our _King,_ the King under the Mountain!"

"Lord Dáin, please," Bilbo murmurs.

"Historically it's a title of connotations," Thranduil says dismissively and then looks to Bilbo. "Well then, what have you to speak of in behalf your King, halfling?"

Bilbo swallows and forcibly keeps himself fiddling with the hem of the cape he wears, feeling terribly out of place and beyond his power. "The Arkenstone," he starts.

Bard jerks a little at that and glances at Thranduil and Gandalf and then back at Bilbo. "You gave it to us," he says slowly. "As the counter for the King's promises. It was an unforeseen kindness on your part and I thank you for it – but I cannot give it back without something in return. My people are in need."

Bilbo sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Yes, I know," he agrees. "That's what I'm here to talk about. Can we sit, maybe?"

There isn't enough seats in Thranduil's tent for all six of them, but at a mere snap of Thranduil's fingers more seats are brought in, as well as a table to suit them. Thranduil takes a seat at one end of the table, all but lounging on the chair and staring at them imperiously. Sitting down, he's still taller than Bilbo.

Bilbo, after some dismayed consideration of the man-sized chair he'd been offered, takes seat at the other end of the table, Balin and Dáin at his sides. Bard and Gandalf sit beside them and beside Thranduil and thus the table is full.

"You know that I too have demands, halfling?" Thranduil says.

"Your demands are for things the King never owed to you," Dáin says harshly. "It was his grandfather who –"

"The grievance I have is with the King under the Mountain," Thranduil says, his expression cooling further. "King Thrôr took something from me. Thorin Oakenshield has done well to model himself after his grandfather, they're practically identical at this point, and if that is what Thorin Oakenshield deigns to become, then the duty of answering to my demands lies now with him."

"You greedy bastard aren't getting a –"

"You are not the King's Spokesperson, Lord Dáin," Thranduil snaps and turns his eyes to Bilbo. "My grievance is legitimate, Speaker. What say you to it?"

Bilbo rubs a hand over his forehead, feeling an ache brewing. Balin is looking at him, leaning in slightly and Bilbo half expects him to speak, tell him what to say… but he doesn't. In the end, Bilbo speaks, unaided. "Are people going to starve and freeze in their beds if you don't get your gems?" he asks and Thranduil blinks at him, taken aback. "Then your grievance can _wait_. Bard," Bilbo says and turns to the man. "Your demands, what are they?"

Put into the spotlight, Bard leans back a little and looks at Thranduil. "What is owed to us," he says then. "Thorin promised the men of Lake-town enough riches to build Esgaroth ten times over. Lake-town is now gone, and we will be settling in Dale now. What we want is enough rebuild it, to survive the oncoming winter and continue from there."

Bilbo nods slowly. "How many men there are in Dale and how many are settling in?" he asks.

"There's around seven hundred of us," Bard admits. "Women and children included."

Seven hundred with limited supply of food and broken houses – and winter on their doorsteps. Bilbo nods slowly, trying to think how much was required by equal amount of hobbits to manage. In Shire people probably managed with less though, and those in need could most of the time rely in kindness of their neighbours. No such kindness here.

"It's too vague a demand to make," Balin murmurs to Bilbo. "He must give a number."

"Yes," Bilbo says and looks at Bard. "You need to make a proper list of demands, with numbers and amounts and services required," he says. "Something we might argue over and eventually sign, once all parties are satisfied. Sentiments are too unclear."

"I – will make one, then," Bard says, frowning. He leans in. "Does this mean that a trade will be made?"

"We'll see," Dáin mutters.

"Hopefully, yes," Bilbo says, glancing at the dwarf lord and then back at the man. "I don't want your people to starve, Bard. If I can make this right, I will. But I can't make any wild promises that hang on words alone – we require contracts from here on out." Contracts were harder to dispute that spoken words, anyway.

"It will take me time to write it," Bard says, frowning. "I need to ask around, make some estimation as to what we need. Can I get back to you on it tomorrow?"

"The sooner the better," Bilbo says and the man rises from his chair, nodding to them and then hurrying off.

"Services required?" Balin asks under his breath.

"They're fishermen," Bilbo points out. "I doubt they know much of stone work – and they will need to fix their houses for winter. I don't think Dale has a single unbroken one left."

"Ah," Balin answers, frowning.

"May I now make my demands?" Thranduil asks coolly and Dáin scoffs.

"Go right ahead," Bilbo says with a sigh.

"The White Gems of Lasgalen," Thranduil says promptly. "I will have them returned."

Bilbo nods slowly and leans back. "And they are yours, aren't they?" he says and looks to Balin. "Are they his, wrongfully kept?"

"They are," Thranduil says harshly. "They were stolen –"

"It's not as simple as that," Balin says and folds his arms. "King Thranduil commissioned a set of jewellery from the silversmiths of Erebor. The gems are his, yes, but the silver was from Erebor, as was the craftsmanship. Some of those designs were completed."

"Hmm," Bilbo answers and looks at Thranduil. "And was it paid for?" he asks and Thranduil scows. Bilbo arches his eyebrows. "Did you pay for the work you commissioned from the dwarves?"

Thranduil looks at him forbiddingly. "Those gems belong to me," he says. "They are mine by right and I will have them back."

"You didn't pay for the work, then," Bilbo guesses and Dáin lets out a small, _ha!_

"King Thrôr demanded higher and higher prices," Thranduil says darkly, leaning in. "The original sum settled upon was never enough for him – with every set of completed jewellery he demanded more, all the while holding my gems hostage. The price got too high eventually, and I refused to pay it. I could not drive my kingdom to poverty over Thrôr's lust for gold."

Bilbo leans back, eying Thranduil. He hadn't seen the gems himself, he doesn't know the work done on them but Thranduil makes it sound like there are several already completed pieces of jewellery finished. Even he knows the value of dwarven craftsmanship, and dwarven silver – even if it is not Silver Steel like Mithril – does not tarnish the same way normal silver does. It retains its gleam and polish eternal if well kept.

"Those gems are owed to me, they are mine, you have no right to keep them," Thranduil says. "Return them to me, and I will call our dispute with Erebor over."

"Hm," Bilbo answers, glancing at Dáin. The dwarf lord's expression is hostile and unwilling. Balin doesn't look happy either. Gandalf is looking between them all curiously, but not taking part – like enjoying a show, the troublemaker. Still, he can see where the dwarven minds would lead.

If Bilbo now simply hands the gems over, jewellery and all, it wouldn't just be weak by dwarven standards – it would be outrageous by hobbit ones as well. Work had been done; it needed to be paid for.

"You will pay for the work you commissioned," Bilbo says slowly. "Do so… and you will have your gems back."

Thranduil rises to his feet sharply. "I will not bend to King Thrôr's demands!" he snaps. "Nor will I bend to the demands of _Mad King Thorin_ for that matter. Those gems are mine, they belong to _me_ , legal and just, you have no right keep them from me! If you will not hand them over –"

"What was the original price agreed upon?" Bilbo asks.

Thranduil hesitates. "I will not pay it now," he says, his eyes narrowed. "Not after over a hundred years of delay. This has gone on quite long enough, don't you think?"

Bilbo folds his arms. "Then what would you have me do, just hand them over to you?" he asks. "You commissioned work, and some of it was completed, yes?"

"Aye, and it's not work that comes for cheap," Dáin leans in. "Erebor's smiths were best in all lands. There was a justifiably heavy price on their work. As was on Erebor's silver."

Thranduil looks between them furiously. "If you will not give me my gems willingly, I will take them by force."

Dáin growls at that and Balin leans back, looking concerned. Gandalf hum deep in his throat and looks at Bilbo who feels… tired with all of this. Even now, after all they've gone through, people are still mad over shiny bits of glass and metal. He will never understand it.

"Say I give the gems to you. What of the next time you decide you require something of the mountain – will you march another army up to its gates to make your demands on sword point?" Bilbo asks and scoffs.

Thranduil narrows his eyes. "There is nothing in that mountain that I require, except the gems."

"There are a lot of gems in that mountain," Bilbo says wryly. Never mind that he'd seen how Thranduil's eyes widened at the sight of the Arkenstone itself, how his breath had stalled.

Thranduil reminds him of his cousin, right now. He'd made the mistake of giving Lobelia a set of kitchenware when downsizing his home set after his parents' deaths and ever since then Lobelia had been demanding ever more. He rather can imagine it now too, Thranduil getting his way now and then expecting it forever after. No wonder the dwarves have such a hard time dealing with the Elvenking.

Thranduil's eyes narrow and Bilbo answers the look levelly. "I'm sure you have gold enough in that mountain," he says then. "Whatever I might pay for the commissioned work can hardly be noticeable."

"You ain't getting dwarven craftsmanship for free, elfling," Dáin snaps. "It ain't happening, you might just forget it."

Bilbo runs a hand over his hair, thinking about it. Thranduil is right, it's not like Erebor needs more gold – the sum they have is rather more a problem than any solution right now. What Erebor needs, more than gold… is food, same as Dale. There are perhaps some barrels of wine that have kept for a hundred, perhaps two hundred years, but whatever food there had been stored in the mountain has long since spoiled. They have coal to burn and furs to keep them warm, but nothing to eat.

It had been his main concern when Thorin had lapsed into his madness. He had forgotten to eat and even so their stores had been dwindling, fast. Had they been besieged in the mountain indefinitely, starvation would've gotten them long before the army could've broken in.

"A different deal, then," Bilbo says and leans in before Dáin can cut in. "A trade. Woodland realm will supply Erebor and Dale with food for one year, and in return you will have your gems back."

Thranduil blinks at that and Dáin rounds up on him. "Halfling, you're mad," he hisses. "Those gems are worth more than that! And what's to stop him from sending spoiled food, what's to stop him from poisoning it himself?"

"His honour, I should hope," Bilbo says and looks at Thranduil, and he can see the Elvenking's eyes flickering away, already plotting out arguments. "It can't be as high a price as what King Thrôr demanded. And besides… how did it go again, _hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf?_ I'm sure you're patient for one more year. I'm sure you can _wait_."

Thranduil eyes him, his expression wiped clean like canvas drained of his colour. Then he narrows his eyes. "Hmm," he says. "I will have half of my gems now."

"A quarter of them," Bilbo says. "And the rest you can have after one full year of good, fresh food delivered timely to Erebor and Dale, enough of it to feed every man and dwarf in these two cities."

Balin frowns at his side, running a hand over his beard but not saying anything while Dáin stomps his foot angrily. "This is lunacy," the dwarf lord mutters. "Those gems are worth a fortune, you're giving them away for pittance."

It's easy for him to say, Bilbo muses. Dáin and his men came with their own food and any time now they can return to Iron Hills and its established supply lines and farms. Erebor and Dale have nothing but stone and scorched earth.

"Hmm," Thranduil says and paces away from the table, considering it. "I will supply you food over the winter," he says then. "Until the last snow melts. After that, I will have my gems."

Bilbo runs a hand over his chin and then nods, turning to Balin. "Can you write it as a contract?"

"Aye, I can do that," Balin answers, considering him and then nodding. "I will have it done by morn."

"Bah," Dáin says and stands up. "You're going too far Halfling," he says. "Thorin will hear about this."

"Yes, he will," Bilbo says after him as the dwarven lord marches off, to report to Thorin no doubt. Sighing, Bilbo stands. "Are there any other demands anyone would like to make right now, or are we done here?"

Thranduil looks at him coolly. "I want my gems before nightfall," he says and turns away. "The first load of food will not be delivered before that."

"You'll sign a contract, same as Bard, before anything at all occurs, King Thranduil," Bilbo says firmly and looks at him. "We are doing this properly. Contract tomorrow, then gems."

"Tch," Thranduil says, looking at him. There's a spark of something in his eyes that isn't disdain, something that might be even begrudging acceptance – for respect certainly would be going too far. Then the Elvenking turns on his heel and heads off, robes fluttering at his wake like silver water.

"Well, now," Gandalf speaks at long last. "That was very interesting indeed."

"You'd think so," Bilbo mutters and rubs at his forehead. "Are kings and lords all such children?"

The wizard hums. "I've generally found it to be so, but there tends to be a spark of sense in any king in any established rule. The foolish ones tend to be…" he casts a glance over Bilbo, "…usurped rather quickly. All it takes is a breath of rational wind to kindle that sharp of sense into reason."

Balin frowns a little and then stands up. "Pardon me," he says. "I have a contract to write."

Bilbo nods to him and watches him hurry off, before turning to Gandalf. "Did I do well, Gandalf?" Bilbo asks. "Or did I make a mess of things?"

"Time will tell," Gandalf says and takes out his pipe. "You might expect Thranduil to try and weasel his way out of the contract or twist it around to his benefit, not that it already isn't. Dáin was entirely correct in saying that the Gems of Lasgalen are more valuable than a mere year's quantity of food. Much more valuable."

"More valuable than our lives?" Bilbo mutters. "There's nothing to eat here, none of us have winter stores."

"You might've simply bought yours from any number of settlements," Gandalf points out. "Iron Hills, if nowhere else, and it wouldn't have cost you anywhere near as much as the Gems of Lasgalen themselves would. But," he adds when Bilbo throws him an alarmed look. "I think your plan has a greater diplomatic merit. Give the gems away now, even for a mountain of gold, and that is the end of it between dwarves and elves in these parts. This way you will remain in forced contact."

"And that's a good thing," Bilbo says dubiously.

"If you want to foster relations with your neighbours, yes," Gandalf says and chews on his unlit pipe. "And I couldn't help but notice you included Dale in that bargain. That's a heaping of good will your way, right there."

"It wasn't as if I could not include them, they're in greater need than the dwarves are," Bilbo mutters and sighs. "The dwarves won't be happy with me," he says then in dawning horror. "I gave away a fortune for a _meal_."

"A very hobbit thing to do, I'd say," Gandalf chuckles.

* * *

 

By the time Bilbo returns to Thorin's side with a tray laden with food in hope of softening whatever blow Dáin's report to his cousin might've caused, he's settled his mind about the trade. It might be cheap one by dwarven standards, but he will still value the ability to eat over a mountain of wealth and Thranduil was still right – they have fortunes enough. They need food more, and an assured source of it throughout the whole winter… it would make things ever so much easier.

Without needing to worry about where their next meal is coming from, they could concentrate on rebuilding and resettling the two cities – something that would surely be infinitely harder if they were all starving.

"I hear you made bargains," Thorin says, inscrutable, as Bilbo moves to his side.

"I did what I thought wise," Bilbo answers, setting the tray on the round table beside Thorin's cot before sitting down beside him. "I know you won't be happy with me, but you did name me your Speaker and so I Spoke."

"You did indeed," Thorin murmurs, watching him.

Bilbo hesitates over the food and then takes a bowl and spoon and hands them to Thorin. "You might still overturn what I made," Bilbo says quietly. "I'm having everyone make contracts. No more of this _trusting people on their word_ nonsense, it'll all be written down now."

Thorin accepts the bowl and says nothing for a moment, looking down at it. "You would not trust me to keep your word," he says finally. "Not without writing it down?"

Bilbo looks at him and then sighs and looks away. He's not sure he trusts anyone to keep their word anymore. Thranduil twists his around and Gandalf never speaks what he means until it is most dramatic and amusing for him. Bard seems sensible yet, but his turn in power has only begun and from what Bilbo had seen, lords and kings got either unpleasant over time or just flat-out confusing.

It's a cold thing to realise, but he isn't sure he has trust in anyone, anymore. Not like he once did, with open eyes and innocent heart that took every word at face value. They all have their agendas, and they hide it in words and then turn around on them when the time is most opportune and at any moment they might lose their mind and forget it all and Bilbo just… can't have faith in words.

He looks at Thorin, who is slowly eating through what must be another bout of pain and nausea. He still looks weak, but better every moment he spends awake, and with every bit he eats he gets stronger. Bilbo doesn't think he will ever tire of it, seeing Thorin _eat_.

If you're eating, you're not dying.

Thorin takes few more spoonfuls of the soup prepared for him and then sighs, leaning back against the pillows. "Perhaps it's for best," he says. "To say we value Thranduil and his accursed gems as a trifle, than to go war for them and thus lend his demands any credence or validation."

Bilbo sighs. "That is not at all what I intended," he mutters in exasperation.

Thorin looks at him and then smiles, that fond soft smile that makes Bilbo's knees feel weak. "No, you just want to see us all fed and watered and content," Thorin says and setting the bowl of food down onto the bed sheets, he reaches to run a hand down Bilbo's back. "You're thinking like a hobbit."

"And I should think as dwarf instead?" Bilbo asks and sighs again. "I doubt I can turn my mind to such loops."

"Nor should you," Thorin says, pushing the cape Bilbo still wears back a little and scraping his fingers through the silver mail over Bilbo's spine. "I doubt I would like you half as much were you a dwarf. If more people valued the things you do –"

"Don't say it again, please," Bilbo says, shivering. The words Thorin spoke to him when he thought he was dying – Bilbo doesn't think he can hear them again without his heart breaking.

Thorin smiles and takes his hand. "The sooner the Gems of Lasgalen are out of my keep and the Arkenstone is once more within it, the happier I will be," he says and winds their fingers together. "And the sooner we may comfortably settle in the halls of my fathers, the better. And if for that you need a mountain of food rather than gems, then so be it."

Bilbo eyes him, helpless at the face of that soft, warm shine of Thorin's eyes. Even now, the contrast between this expression and Thorin's more customary scowl is so marked. It all but undoes him, to see him so gentle. "A hoard of good food and fine wine and nice clothing," he says and plucks slightly at his cape and sighs. "I couldn't ask for more."

Thorin's smile widens. "Could you not," he asks, and strokes Bilbo's hand. "Nothing more than that, nothing at all?"

Bilbo swallows and bows his head a little. "I wouldn't say no to a garden, one day," he says, evasively, and looks away. "Or maybe a hothouse, rather. It's so cold in these parts I don't think a hobbitish garden would manage here."

"Well it is almost winter here, but in any case I'll build you a palace of glass and silver, so you may plant a whole forest within it," Thorin swears, smiling. "Anything else, my Burglar?"

Bilbo sighs. "Stop it," he says embarrassedly, and reaches over to adjust an unruly curl of black and silver hair over the dwarf's face. "All I want is to see you happy and healthy and maybe even properly fed for once. I need nothing more."

Thorin turns his head to his hand and presses a kiss on his wrist. "Is that a not so subtle order to make me finish my food?"

It wasn't intended as such but, "Yes, it is," Bilbo says. "Finish your food, Thorin."

"Yes, my Burglar," Thorin chuckles and takes the bowl again. He can't finish all of it and Bilbo spares him the rest of it once he starts having true difficulty swallowing – finishing the rest of it himself.

"Still," Bilbo says, putting the bowl away and offering Thorin a glass of water instead. "Will the decisions I made reflect badly on you?"

Thorin drinks and sighs. "It's not a good look for a dwarf," he says and closes his eyes. "To give so much for so little. But you're not a dwarf, and everyone knows what a hobbit values. It may yet be forgotten. But Bilbo, after this…" he opens his eyes and reaches for him.

Bilbo nods. "You will have to take revoke my status as your Speaker?" he guesses and smiles a little. "I'll thank you for it. It's been one day and I already hate it."

Thorin laughs and then winces, clasping a hand over his stomach. "You – _oh_ – you did well for my people, and I'll be happy knowing we will not be forced to endure hunger this winter nor another war," he says, rubbing at his wounded belly. "But it will be looked down upon with scorn later. I'm sorry."

"I can handle scorn, so as long it's not directed at you," Bilbo says and takes Thorin's hand again. He's coming to know it well, that wide, callused palm, those big fingers. It's becoming as familiar to him as his own hand. "Still better than just handing the gems over for nothing, I think."

"Yes, it's better than that," Thorin says and watches him. "I will have a position for you yet," he says then and squeezes his hand. "You'll have your rightful place in my court."

"I don't need a position, Thorin," Bilbo shakes his head. "You don't need to make me official. I'll help you whatever way I can for as long as you need it, regardless what status I do it from."

Thorin eyes him with broken wonder and then lifts Bilbo's hand and kisses his knuckles. "By my side, then," he says. "Always, by my side."

Bilbo rather feared – hoped and feared – he'd say that.


	4. Chapter 4

The contracts are written and after some arguing and adjustments, they are eventually agreed upon. Thranduil will get his gems for a season's worth of food delivered and Bard…

"You asked for food for us as well?" the man asks, surprised.

"Seemed like the thing to do," Bilbo admits while looking his demands over. "You can still buy yours if you'd like, but I thought it would make things easiest for everyone if we had an assured source for a while at least."

Bard's demands amount to much and at the same time… not terribly much at all. Mostly Bard wants gold – gold to buy food with, gold to buy materials and goods with, gold to hire workers with. The not-so-subtle-hint Bilbo had given, of asking services from dwarves, has been ignored – Bard, it seems, does not wish for dwarven hands to help him rebuild Dale.

Is it pride, that terrible thing of _honour_ again? Leaning his cheek to his hand, Bilbo traces the words on the paper – gold enough to pay hundred men wages for two years is a lot, but considering the size of Dale… Of course it wouldn't be just construction and repair work – Dale needs farms also, it needs other workers; officials, it probably needs legal people… and it needs an army. Considering its location and all that, it‘s likely the Battle of Five Armies wouldn't be the last battle they saw.

It still goes a bit beyond Bilbo's understanding but he's trying to think the things others must be thinking. Wealth of Erebor and Dale, weak and ruined, at its doorstep. If another enemy came, which would fall quicker?

And despite that very real danger, Bard is also aiming to buy his building materials elsewhere, it seems, and have it delivered however far it would need to come from. Erebor must have stone aplenty he could've demanded access to, but instead he wants money to buy it with. Gold, gold, and more gold and in the end… nothing but gold.

Bilbo runs a hand over his face and wonders if this is simply how people think in these parts – can they not think in terms of goods for goods, must gold always be inserted in between? Was that why it was so odd for him to request for food for the White Gems – was it so unusual here?

"How much does it all amount to?" Bilbo asks finally, handing the list of demands to Balin.

"Wages for hundred men for two years…" Balin hums

"At five silver per day," Bard says firmly. "I will not force my workers to scrape at pennies."

Balin glances up and frowns, nodding slowly. "Then materials for building, and their transport to Dale, that will be several thousand…" he leans back and folds his arms. "You'll be buying horses too, carts, clothing and whatnot, I imagine?"

"What any city needs," Bard says firmly and holds out another paper. "This is the number we came up with."

Bilbo accepts the paper with dread and then stares at it in some confusion. It is a large number, to be sure, too large for one small hobbit to even comprehend, but… "Balin," he says and hands it over. "Does this line up with your calculation?"

The dwarf considers the paper, stroking his beard. "I'd have to discuss it with Glóin, he knows more about the markets of the area than do I, but… aye, I think this would be roughly the sum one needs to resettle Dale and rebuild it too."

Bilbo looks between the two. Twenty thousand gold. It's more gold than possibly all the gold of Shire put together and tripled on top of it – it's enough gold to make his head spin. But compared to Erebor's estimated million – which they now think was wildly underestimated after all…

Bilbo shakes his head. "Can it be done?" he asks, looking at Balin.

The old dwarf leans back. "I hold to my word," he says then, giving Bilbo a look. "… but we should run this by Glóin and Thorin first at any rate."

Bilbo nods. "Of course," he says and stands.  "I'll try to get this done as quickly as possible," he says to Bard. "But can you wait a little longer?"

"So as long as it doesn't take weeks," Bard says, seeming relieved. Possibly he had thought the sum too high – but then, he hadn't seen the wealth of Erebor in full. None of the men had.

Probably a good thing.

* * *

 

Glóin spends a furious afternoon calculating the costs of materials and work and various other things one might need in rebuilding project the size of Dale, with Bofur throwing in estimations on value of stone and Ori writing it all down in hasty scribble, but in the end they can't lower the sum much at all.

"Eighteen thousand, that's the lowest you can possibly do it, but with things like these the budget will _always_ go over," Glóin says grimly over the calculation. "The winter is coming too, that will stall things for the snowiest months and make things more difficult. At five silver wages and transporting _stone_ from far away… hmm."

"It still seems so little compared to what Erebor has," Bilbo murmurs.

"Erebor has the gold of a kingdom hoarded over near a century," Glóin says darkly. "A whole nationwide economy's worth of fortune."

"I still can't wrap my head around how it is even possible," Bilbo admits with a sigh.

"Never underestimate dwarves," Balin says with a wry sort of smile and shakes his head. "At any rate, twenty thousand seems reasonable to me. Thorin should think so too, I hope – especially if we frame it against the main sum Erebor has."

"Do we have the full number?" Bilbo asks warily.

"I have it right here," Ori says and brings forth a great big gold clad book that has silver runes in front. He opens it with a thump and leafs through the massive pages filled to the brim with writing until he gets to the latest one. "The final estimation of Erebor's finances – one million four hundred eighty-two thousand three hundred and fourteen gold coins, eight hundred five thousand and fifty nine silver coins, nine hundred and fourteen thousand, eight hundred and ninety seven copper coins."

Bilbo stares at him.

"And," Ori continues, "Still to be tallied sum of loose gold, estimation around two and three thousand tons, and then there's some half a ton of various gem stones of varying value, and around ton of loose jewellery, still to be valued."

"… three thousand _tons_?" Balin asks slowly.

"Aye," Glóin agrees and runs a hand over his forehead. "Judging by the statue mould size, it would've weighed around two thousand tons in total if made of gold, which it was if only momentarily. There's still some loose gold left in the forges too…"

"Minted into coins that would be…"

"Another ninety million, or there about."

Bilbo chokes a little at that.

The dwarves around the table exchange looks, a little blank faced and glassy eyed as they too have somewhat hard time wrapping their heads around the sheer wealth of Erebor. Ori ducks his head back into the book with a shudder and Balin runs a hand over his face somewhat shakily and Glóin leans back.

"So… twenty thousand gold coins, it's not much, it's not much at all, compared to the rest," he says and looks to Bilbo. "Barely over one percent of the actually minted coins and not even a drop in the bucket for the rest. Framed like that… I think Thorin might yet relent."

"This is insane," Bilbo says, shaking his head. "How does _anyone_ , how does any single _place_ have this kind of fortune? What do you even do with wealth like this?"

Glóin lets out a gruff laugh. "You stare at it," he says. "And occasionally sleep in it, from what I can tell."

"You must take care when relaying this to Thorin," Balin says to Bilbo very seriously. "He is still… delicate about it."

Bilbo frowns. Delicate, yes, that's one word for what Thorin is. "Is that why he hasn't yet been moved back to Erebor?" he asks quietly, looking between the dwarves. It's been a couple of days now, but they're still all in the battlefield between Erebor and Dale – the dwarves have yet to settle in Erebor permanently, even Thorin's company camps outside, rather than within.

Balin presses his lips tight together and sighs. "Well, the situation calls for his presence here," he says. "But yes, we want to clear out the gold before, break it apart and hide it from view. Being away from it has helped, but should he see it in mounds…"

"We're starting to break apart the floor in the Gallery of the Kings today," Glóin adds. "With help of Dáin's men we should get it done before morning. I wouldn't put it beyond them to sneak away with some shards of it, but considering all of this…" he motions at Ori's ledger. "It's a price we're willing to pay, for our king's sanity."

Balin nods grimly and sets down the numbers they'd been going over. "Now all that's left is to relay this to Thorin," he says and looks to Bilbo. "Can you do it?"

"I figure I must," Bilbo says with a sigh and then stands. How to do it without sparking that mad gleam back into Thorin's eyes, that was the question. "Can you prepare the gold for transport?" he asks then, looking at the dwarves. "The sum that is to go to Bard?"

"Aye," Glóin says and stands up, followed quickly by Ori who takes the ledger with him. "We'll have it done in a jiffy."

"And…" Bilbo trains away and sighs. "The White Gems of Lasgalen," he adds, looking to Balin. "Can you…"

"We'll have one quarter of them sorted out, and delivered here," Balin promises gently.

"Thank you. Add in at least one of the completed works in the quarter, please, to show Thranduil the work done on them," Bilbo says and then takes a deep breath. "In the meanwhile… I guess I'll go talk with Thorin. Wish me luck."

* * *

 

Thorin's eyes do not glaze over at the numbers, not quite. He stares at nothing as Bilbo relays the numbers – hundreds of thousand and millions and _thousands of tons_ – and he seems more confused than enthralled, like he can't quite comprehend it.

"It's been broken apart, the hoard – only the gems remain in the throne room," Bilbo says, holding onto Thorin's hand and massaging his fingers – they feel oddly cold and lax in his hold, listless. "The floor will soon follow – it will be put into vaults first, then perhaps later melted and minted into coins or bars, whichever works better."

Thorin blinks slowly, his brow wrinkling and then he looks up at Bilbo. "And… that's good," he says, sounding dazed. "Yes, that's better, isn't it?"

"Certainly safer," Bilbo says and looks down at Thorin's hand. His fingers are still oddly listless, like he's not quite within himself. "It's all still there, just… no longer in a big pile."

Thorin breathes in and out slowly and then shifts where he sits against the cushions. "Yes, yes, that is good," he says, still sounding a little confused before drawing a breath and releasing it slowly. "I – didn't realise how much it really was. I knew, I saw it before Smaug came, there were ledgers kept, I saw them, but…"

Bilbo rubs his hand gently as Thorin tries to work through the numbers in his mind, eventually giving up and shaking his head. Watching him carefully, Bilbo slides his fingers among Thorin's and now the hand reacts, grasping his first weakly and then with renewed strength. Thorin breathes and something seems to settle.

"How much do the men demand?" Thorin asks.

"Very little, in the end," Bilbo promises. "It's only a little over one percent of the coins – and it doesn't even touch the un-minted gold. Some members of the company have offered measure of their own shares if…" he trails off at the look Thorin gives him.

"How much, Bilbo?" the dwarven king demands, his expression hardening.

"Twenty thousand," Bilbo says warily, looking between Thorin's eyes. "Enough to hire workers and acquire materials for the rebuilding and resettling of Dale, Balin and Glóin both ran the numbers –"

"Twenty thousand gold coins," Thorin repeats and it rumbles deep in his chest.

Bilbo stops and stares at him. "Thorin, compared to what you have, it's so very little," he says gently. "It's barely enough to make dent in Erebor's wealth –"

"Twenty thousand," Thorin says again, his eyes narrowed. "What does the man think to do with such a sum? Does he take us for _fools_?"

"Thorin," Bilbo says quietly. "It will take a lot of work to rebuild Dale. It will take workers who demand wages; it will take materials which must be bought. They need to re-establish farms, for which they will need more materials, tools, animals… these things are not free."

"They have workers aplenty amongst themselves, and materials lay in Dale, don't they?" Thorin asks harshly. "In Ered Luin we never saw such sums and yet we managed well enough."

"Well, Blue Mountains have their own income, do they not? Money flows in, as much as it flows out," Bilbo says frankly. "Can you claim the same for Dale?"

Thorin stares at him, frowning and then blinking oddly. "You would defend them, for making such outrageous demands?" he asks and he sounds almost hurt. "You would take their side, still, even now?"

Bilbo sighs and runs a hand over his face. He'd hoped, oh, how he'd hoped this was behind them now, but… Balin had been right in going through all this trouble to keep Thorin away from Erebor and its gold, away from temptation. Temptation isn't there now, perhaps, but it seems that a perceived threat is enough to rekindle that terrible greed. Oh, how he hoped it wasn't so.

Thorin frowns at him, hurt and then confused at his silence, at his morose exasperation. He turns away, frowning in bewilderment and as his hand slips from Bilbo's, the hobbit makes a decision. One he thinks he might come to regret, and yet…

And yet, he'd feared it would come to this. And he'd made his promise, to stand by Thorin – and to make right by his honour.

As Thorin sways in confusion of his own thoughts, Bilbo undoes the clasp of his cape and sets it aside before reaching for a candlestick standing by Thorin's cot, and moving it closer. He can tell the moment the gleam of candle light reflects on Thorin because the dwarf's eyes are drawn back to him as if by their own.

Drawn back… to the Mithril shirt.

Bilbo turns to him and watches as the confusion gives away. The soft tenderness that comes to Thorin's face is a sweet sight in comparison, for all that it turns Bilbo's stomach to see it now and to doubt its cause. Him, or the shirt, or both of them together, he isn't sure which it is… but it's enough to draw Thorin's attention away like he's a moth and Bilbo his flame.

Thorin's hand on his chest, tracing the silver mail, is steady, and Bilbo steadies it further by pressing his own hand over it, pinning Thorin's hand between his own and the Mithril covering his heart.

"I know I took my share in the Arkenstone," Bilbo says softly, reaching to touch Thorin's face, tracing his fingers over his beard. "I want to get it back to you. Will you please let me get it back to you?"

Thorin draws his eyes from the shining metal and to Bilbo's face and his expression remains tender and gentle. "The Arkenstone," he repeats.

"If we make this deal with the men, Bard will give it back to us," Bilbo says. "Back to you."

"I never had it," Thorin says and he is steadier now, the cold, harsh tinge of golden madness eased away by this other, softer type of lunacy. The dwarf sighs and his fingers thrum gently over Bilbo's heart. "I have never touched it in my life, did you know? Grandfather would not bear for anyone to touch it, aside from him. Father told me I held my hand over it when I was a babe, in my naming… but never in my own memory have I held it."

Bilbo swallows. "Well then, let me get it for you," he says. "Please, let me do this for you."

He feels like the worst sort of conniving schemer, to use this against Thorin like this, whatever _this_ even is… but it works. Thorin sighs and gives him a smile and a shake of his head. "You always try to do the best by me, Bilbo, even when I am being unreasonable," he says. "I don't think I deserve you."

"No," Bilbo agrees, trying not to sound as wretched as he feels. "You deserve things far better than me, Thorin Oakenshield." And far kinder, too, for whatever Bilbo is doing now, he's sure it isn't a kindness. "Will you sign the contract Balin wrote, then?"

Thorin looks down from Bilbo's face to his chest, and traces the shape of sternum gently. "I'll sign it," he says and nods, more to himself than to Bilbo. "I will sign it and be done with men as well as elves and glad of it. And then we may go into the mountain and be at last _home_."

Bilbo swallows, distantly hearing those grand gates closing after him for what might very well be for the last time. "Yes," he says. "With this contract done and the trade made… we may go to Erebor and stay."

"Home, at last," Thorin says with a smile and looks up at last. "And you will come home with me, Master Burglar, will you not?" And he doesn't mean merely the mountain itself, does he?

Bilbo laughs and it sounds desperate even to his ears. "Thorin Oakenshield, I will go with you wherever you may lead," he swears and cradles Thorin's face, so dear and so painful, between his hands. "Wherever you will go, I will follow. Now and forever."

Thorin smiles brightly and it might be just Bilbo's own fears and guilt, but it looks slightly deranged on his face. Too wide, too much teeth, too much happiness – it hardly looks real. Then Thorin pulls Bilbo in and with a shaking sigh, Bilbo lets him.

Their first kiss tastes of smoke and metal.

* * *

 

Bard gets his gold that evening, and Thranduil gets his gems. Bilbo hands both over under the watchful eye of Gandalf the Grey and Dáin Ironfoot, with whatever ceremony can be scrounge up in the tent-filled battlefield. It's, in Bilbo's opinion, too much ceremony as it is, though. They're surrounded by hosts of elves on one side and dwarves on the other, all armed to the teeth with armours gleaming with fresh polish and it's just… a little too much after everything.

He still feels so wretched about Thorin and Gandalf makes it sound so terribly grandiose when he announces; "With this the Dwarven honour is restored!" to the triumphant clanging and banging of dwarves steel weapons against shields and armours.

It's a lot of glitter and gleam, as Thranduil examines his gems with a discerning eye, running his fingers over the shining necklace fashioned once upon a time by the smiths of Erebor. Bard kneels down to examine one of the four chests delivered, taking an Ereborean coin and biting into it before dropping it back in amidst its brethren.

"You have kept your word, Bilbo Baggins," the man says and bows his head before taking the Arkenstone from his breast pocket. "You've dealt with us fairly and I thank you for it. Erebor's honour is indeed restored." He doesn't sound like he means it, but that he says it is enough.

"I'm glad to hear it," Bilbo says, and swallows his gloom, accepting the shining stone. It looks so cold, now, in his hands. Erebor's honour might be restored in word and deed, but not in sentiment, he knows. Bard, the Lord of Dale, would never trust the word of Thorin Oakenshield again. But at least for now… their word had been kept.

"Yes," Thranduil says and closes the metal chest where his gems lay. "It seems there is yet one in Erebor who may be trusted in," he says, which makes Bilbo feel worse yet. "Shipments from Greenwood will begin shortly, and I promise spring will find your people well fed."

Bilbo bows his head at that and the two Kings – for that is what they are – bow back to him. They take their fortunes, Bard with the aid of several other men to carry his as gold is very heavy indeed, and then they take their leave. The elven host soon follow, their tents already packed away, their camp broken.

Bilbo stands in front of the host of dwarves and then turns to face them – face Dáin who scowls at him and Balin who is looking at him worriedly.

Bilbo takes a breath and then releases it. "It's time to return the Heart of the Mountain back to where it belongs," he says and lifts the Arkenstone as high as he can, showing it to everybody. "It's time to resettle Erebor, for once and for all."

The cheer he gets rattles his bones and leaves him feeling terribly hollow, but he smiles and pretends triumph he can't claim to truly feel.

* * *

 

Letters go out from Erebor that night, carried by the wings of ravens. The King of Durin's Folk calls his people back home from the Blue Mountains and from settlements of men, from the Iron Hills and every other corner of Middle Earth where they, homeless, had been forced to settle. The King Under the Mountain has his mountain at last, and a kingdom would soon follow.

Bilbo stands back and watches how Thorin, who is cradling the Arkenstone gently in his hands, is carried in a grand, gold-encrusted sedan chair in through the broken gates and into Erebor. Thorin wants him there, he knows, but he can't bear to do it now – can't insert himself into the moment that is for dwarves alone, that should be Thorin's and his people's.

"You did this," Balin says to him. "And it was well done. Our people will have peace, hopefully for long enough for Erebor to reaffirm its strength and rebuild its might. Thorin will heal and grow strong and be crowned, properly, the King of Erebor. We will have good times ahead of us."

Bilbo nods. "Yes," he repeats, thinking of Gandalf's parting words - _you've become now a Hobbit under the Mountain and I find the mountain better for it_ – and he feels ill. "I certainly hope so."

Balin rests a hand on his shoulder and there is something in his eyes – Bilbo wonders if he knows, if he'd guessed. He says nothing though, and neither does Balin who moves to join the flow of people into the mountain.

There's rebuilding ahead of them, and yes, they would have joy and gladness aplenty. Bilbo would see to it personally if he had to – Thorin would know happiness under the Mountain even if he had to fight for it. Nothing would stand in its way, now. Not dragons or men or elves – or even a hoard of gold.

Idly, Bilbo fingers the single bit of gold he has that sits heavy in his pocket, and sighs. There would be dark times ahead, too. He can't yet know what, but he'd seen them reflected in Dáin's eyes and Balin's frowns, in the way Gandalf hummed when the future was spoken of and how Bard looked away. Thorin would only see gladness, Bilbo would make sure of it, but there'd be grief too.

And he'd deal with it as it came, and block it from Thorin with his own body if he had to. He has his Mithril shirt and little elven dagger – and a magic ring.

He makes for a fine hobbit champion, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably warn you here that this story is only going to get darker from here on out. And Bilbo's and Thorin's relationship is going to be... twisty-turny and kind of codependent on both sides. So yeah. I've tagged this with Codependency and Unhealthy Relationships, though I don't think it's going to fully go abusive, just... bit twisted.


	5. Chapter 5

Erebor is cold. It's always been like that for Bilbo, ever since he first set a foot in the mountain he was taken by this sudden realisation that it is cold underground. It had been freezing in the tunnels of the Misty Mountains too, deep as they had been burrowed into the mountain, but Erebor is even worse. It's all wide halls and large spaces and the cold is ever-present and enduring.

It's no wonder most dwarves wear furs and heavy leathers or like Ori burrow themselves under small mounds of knitting. The beards and hair must help too, Bilbo thinks with slight jealousy – they keep the drafts from getting at their throat and neck.

They heat certain places in the mountain – personal quarters, some of the meeting halls and apparently the market places and certain shops would have their own heating. Right now, though, with only the Company and Dáin's army of warriors present, there is no point in heating much any of it, so… they don't.

"The forges won't be relit until we have smiths to work them," Balin says. "They offer some warmth when they're on, day and night, but for now they're too much effort for such a small gain."

The solution to the cold is a simple one – to cover oneself with furs, which Erebor it turns out has plenty of, as well as silks and fine woollen coats and whole storerooms full of nothing but rolls of rich fabric. It wasn't just gold Erebor had hoarded, it seems – it had been a wealthy kingdom in more ways than in mere metal. Still…

Bilbo hardly feels like a hobbit, when Dori presents him a coat of nothing _but_ fur, a beautiful silver shaded one with soft thick fur that makes Bilbo feel both warm and utterly decadent. "Mink," Dori explains while trimming the hem to more suitable length. "Now, what of footwear?"

"My feet don't get cold, it's fine," Bilbo answers with a sigh, knowing in dwarven standards he must look ridiculous in the expensive fur while walking around barefoot, but damnit all, he's still a hobbit, isn't he? "Is this very expensive?" he asks then, running a hand over the soft, silky fur.

"Oh, dreadfully," Dori agrees and leans back to look. "I think you'll do."

He does better with little of the Mithril shirt underneath uncovered, of course, but that is neither here nor there. Bilbo goes forth feeling a little less cold and contends himself with that, at least.

In the meanwhile, the dwarves begin resettling Erebor. Dáin's men aren't there to stay indefinitely, something which Bilbo is secretly rather glad of as they all come across as rather brusque and forbidding and they don't seem to like him much. Probably taking their lord's example.

"I don't like you much, halfling, but Thorin will have you here, so here you will remain," Dáin says him flat out, and it sounds more like a threat than acceptance. "You damn well better not abuse it."

"It is not my attention to abuse anything or anyone," Bilbo mutters. Except maybe you of your hot headed notion that your threats persuade me, he adds internally but knows better than to say it out loud.

Dáin and his people are staying in Erebor over the winter and until Thorin's own people come back. Erebor is still in a weak position and even with the front gates being quickly repaired for the winter months, left alone the company would be defenceless against any attack, small or big. So, Dáin and his host of dwarves would stay for as long as they needed to secure Thorin on his thrones and see Erebor's own defences and strengths restored.

To Bilbo it sounds worryingly vague. What constitutes of Erebor's power and strength restored is not quite clear – does it mean when there's more of Thorin's people in Erebor as opposed to Dáin's people, or when Thorin's armies are a big or bigger than Dáin's? Or when Erebor has as many people and warriors as it had, in its golden days before Smaug came?

"Don't worry about it, laddie," Balin tells him comfortingly. "Dáin's wise enough to not to linger past his welcome – and put undue pressure on Erebor's rule. Two dwarf lords in same keep is never a good idea and we all know better than to provoke a power struggle there. As it is, Dáin has his own mountain to rule which I'm sure he's eager to get to."

His own mountain doesn't house a horde of untold gold, though, Bilbo muses, but doesn't say. The Iron Hills produce, as advertised, iron for the most part and some copper and tin and other things of that nature – but nothing precious, nothing like Erebor. Erebor is utterly absurd in how much wealth it produces – gold, silver, diamonds and sapphires and many other terribly precious things. It defies reason, sometimes, how much there is in Erebor – and how much yet to be mined.

"We must take care from here on out," Glóin speaks to the Company in one of their meetings – of which they're holding many now that the mountain is being settled. "The wealth of Erebor remains valuable only so as long as the markets remain stable. Pour in any resource into an existing system in too big quantities and the whole thing is overbalanced. The value of gold is high partially because so much of it had been lost before – start spending it now at too liberal a hand, and tomorrow you might need to buy with two coins what today you got for one. Or worse!"

The economics of it is intricate and a little mind-bending for Bilbo, but Balin nods in grim agreement and they talk it over with Thorin at length, while Thorin rubs at his forehead and obviously has some difficulty keeping his mind on track.

"If to spend it might risk overbalancing a market, then the safest would be to not spend any of it," Thorin mutters later to Bilbo. "Save the gold for ourselves, would that not be… the best way to go?"

"Thorin," Bilbo says gently, drawing his hands to himself and then into his coat, to rest at his waist – at the belt of his sword, over the Mithril mail. "You know better than that."

Thorin sighs, his fingers twitching on Bilbo's side and then spreading out to hold him, his palm big and his fingers strong, the heat of it soon sinking into the metal and through the undershirt to Bilbo. "Yes, but I have a damned hard time liking it," he admits. "I know I must make my kingdom great for my people to settle, there are repairs to make and cleaning to be done. The amount of pipe work that has been rusted to ruin and has to be replaced – Dáin will get a damned dear commission from us, before this winter is over. But to part with the gold…"

Bilbo hums in quiet agreement. They've kept Thorin away from the gold as much as they've been able to, but it's impossible to hide all of it. Lot of Dáin's people have jewellery, their noses and brows and ears pierced in with golden rings and studs, their armours enhanced where they can afford it. Even with armours shed for warmer, easier clothing, they carry their fortunes in display, and Thorin's eye lingers.

And then there is the crown – and with the crown kingly clothes. Thorin hasn't been properly crowned yet – and will not be before his sister is there to see it – so he has set the raven crown of Erebor aside for now. Instead he wears what was his old one, from his days as the second heir of Erebor – a prince's crown. It is of silver, instead of gold, and has sapphires in place of rubies… but gold or not, it is still quite the gleam of wealth.

With it he's donned on cloak with silver fox fur, and mail that's itself made of steel – but which has on it golden accents. It's fitting for a king, of course, and Bilbo is getting the impression that Thorin should not wear anything poorer than what is befitting of him – or the dwarven warriors from Dáin's court might not take his authority seriously or some other nonsense… but he worries.

If Thorin had easy access to it, Bilbo has no doubt his fingers would be encrusted with rings, his wrists covered in bracelets. Thankfully by now, Thorin seems aware of his own weakness to it, and has not asked to see his fortunes. It helps, that he can stop himself, can look away and ignore it.

Except in one case.

"Would it be easier, if I wore some?" Bilbo asks quietly, while Thorin's fingernails count the pattern of rings of his shirt in gentle scrapes.

"And have you distract me even further?" Thorin asks, wonderingly, while leaning in to press his lips on Bilbo's forehead. "You're temptation enough as you are."

Bilbo closes his eyes, leaning into his warmth and in safety of being out of Thorin's field vision, makes a face. Thorin is still injured – he's walking now on his own power and can do work outside his bedroom, but he still winces and Óin is still keeping watchful eye on him. All… _exciting_ activities have been strictly banned by the healer.

Soon, though. Very soon.

"Whatever you need to keep your mind calm, Thorin," Bilbo says.

Thorin hums. "I'd put a crown on you if I could," he murmurs and lifts one hand off Bilbo's waist, to run his big, blunt fingers through Bilbo's hair instead, pushing it back past his ear. "Grow out your hair so I may braid my beads in it."

Bilbo swallows and nods against Thorin's chin, closing his eyes against the soft rasp of his beard. "If you'd like," he says and leans back. "Hobbit hair grows curly, however. I will never have a beautiful mane like yours – mine will grow more like a brambly bush."

"All the better to grow it – and tame it with braids and gems," Thorin says with a smile and traces his fingers down Bilbo's smooth cheek. Does he miss a beard there, Bilbo wonders, but then Thorin pulls him into a kiss and it doesn't matter right then.

Later it might, but later comes later.

* * *

 

While outside Dale becomes abuzz with activity, carts coming in and going out with men and materials, and Thranduil sends in his shipments of food like clockwork, Erebor for the lack of a better word, heals. The marks of the dragon are cleared out and once the gates have been repaired and the statues in front restored after days of busy stone work, eyes turn inward. There are broken walkways and collapsed pillars by the dozen that have to be restored, and quickly too – for Erebor is still, after everything and before everything else, a _cave_.

"And we don't want a cave in here, now do we?" Bofur asks, while Bilbo walks at Thorin's side, examining the work they're doing.

They'd fought – or rather ran away from – Smaug here, on these impressive, terrifying catwalks on their way to the great dwarves forges. Where pillars and walkways had stood there is now impressive scaffolding of metal and ancient wood, and at Bofur's diction the pillars are being rebuild post haste.

"Mind you, I am no mason, or stone carver, someone else will have to come in later to make them all nice, but I can make sure the roof don't collapse on our heads at least," Bofur says. "I've been looking into the mines too – from what Ori's been able to figure out of the past, a lot of them have collapsed between then and now."

"What have we lost?" Thorin asks.

"Nothing we can't with bit of work regain, I don't think – a couple tunnels to gem veins, one of the gold-rich tunnels," Bofur says. "We can fix them later, with man power and a bit of work and a good deal of support structures. There is one curious thing though, that you might want to see."

He takes them through walkways and down what seems like an endless sum of stairs, by the end of which Bilbo is starting to feel not so much worried as downright _alarmed_ for Thorin, who is wincing by the time they make it down to the darker, colder, _gloomier_ tunnels. The mines, Bilbo assumes judging by all the carts and mining tools stacked about.

There, Bofur waves a torch around and shows them an enormous mound of loose stone – which Bilbo soon learns, is actually the mouth of a great big tunnel. The main tunnel of the mines, the pulsing vein of Erebor's mining complex, had been collapsed. "Intentionally, I'd say," Bofur says, holding the torch up. "You can see scorch marks here and there – there was a detonation here. And look there, at the supports – those should've been good enough to keep the whole thing up, but someone's chopped them with an axe. Someone collapsed the tunnel on purpose."

"It wasn't done in our time," Thorin murmurs, meaning the _time before Smaug came_. "Last I remember these tunnels were clear."

"Aye, I thought so too," Bofur says and gives them a grim look. "Bifur reckons it might've been survivors. They had the same idea Balin had, when we were running about trying not to become dragon chow – seek shelter in the mines. Some folk came down here to hold out away from the dragon, and they collapsed the tunnel behind them to keep the dragon from following. Not that Smaug ever came down here, from the looks of it."

Bilbo swallows, staring at the mound of rock while Thorin's expression grows darker with grief and guilt.

"Once the pillars are done and the city structure is secure," Thorin says quietly, "have this cleared."

"Aye, we'll do that," Bofur agrees and looks at the mound. "Of course there ain't a chance they lived for long, not without air, food… It's a long and slow death, to be trapped in a tunnel. But we might as well give the poor bastard peace and a better resting place."

Bilbo rather wishes he could've relayed that information without having Thorin walk down thousand steps of stairs – which he now has to climb _up_ again. "Please tell me there is an elevator here," he says, while supporting Thorin around the waist.

One of the best dwarven inventions, Bilbo has decided, elevators. If he could he'd have the whole city covered by them, just to spare Thorin the otherwise dreadful amount of stairs and walking people have to do to get around.

Bofur looks at them, arching his brows, and then makes a guilty face. "Ah, aye, there is," he says awkwardly. "Bit of an old lug, but we should be able to use it – right this way, majesties."

* * *

 

Bilbo had figured that winter in east would be worse than it was in west. It's only mid autumn by Shire standards when snows start coming down on the Lonely Mountain, and the first snow is permanent. It doesn't come down in the soft, gentle blanket it does in shire, either – rather it's like hard rime in air that the wind throws around and turns into tiny icy daggers. It's harsh and it's cold and it's all around miserable – and it's only going to get worse.

Within few days, the area is covered in a blanket of crisp _ice_. And it's while going out to look and marvel it from the gates of Erebor, that Bilbo sees what has been happening in Dale.

The elven hosts are long gone and Dáin's camp has been long since broken, his men in the mountain now – and still, Dale is surrounded by tents. There are fires burning in the city, smoke trailing up from dozen chimneys, and even at a distance Bilbo can see the scaffolding surrounding buildings they're repairing.

"Would my lord like a look?" one of Dáin's warriors, a guard who's on duty at the gates, asks while offering him a looking glass.

"That's kind of you to offer, thank you," Bilbo says and accepts the glass to have a closer look.

"The men are busy buggers," the dwarf says. "Crawled about the Great Hall like ants and fixed it within a day. They've been going through the houses at steady pace since then."

"Surely they couldn't have already had the materials brought in – I thought it would take weeks?" Bilbo mutters.

"They took apart the worst-off houses, I reckon," the dwarf muses. "Used them to rebuild the rest. Shipments are starting to stream in now though – up the River Running and up the Long Lake. They'll be rebuilding the wall next, I reckon."

"The wall," Bilbo murmurs.

He can see carts going about the city, what little he can see past the broken walls of Dale. There's people milling about the clusters of tents, horses going to and fro. There's… certainly more people there than the last he looked. "Where all these people come from?"

"Everywhere nearby, I'd reckon," the warrior says and gives him a look. "They're streaming in every day, more people. Word has gone out – dragon dead, Erebor reclaimed and Dale to be rebuilt. Thousands of men will be coming here now, all sorts of rabble swarming over the bones of our dead, to try and claim a share of the wealth to come."

Bilbo lowers the glass and frowns. Dáin's warriors had been laid in stone, the same as Kíli and Fíli, with all the honours Thorin had managed to muster for their sacrifices. They'd gotten a prince's burial. None of them had been left to lie on the battlefield. Still… the men are settling the battlefield, and it is a little uneasy to think that they've set their tents on blood spilled.

"Those tents… they're not workers, are they?" Bilbo asks quietly and hands the glass back.

"Some of 'em," the dwarf answers and accepts the looking glass back. "Most of 'em are just seeking their fortunes."

Bilbo shakes his head. In part he can understand – Erebor has a lot of wealth, enough to share, certainly. But he knows dwarves better than to think it would be easily shared. In comparison Dale, even with its sum of twenty thousand gold coins, is worse off. What fortunes are there to be had here?

"Why would they move to a ruined city just before _winter_?" Bilbo wonders in dismay. "It's going to be dreadfully uncomfortable for them."

"Aye, but chances are it would've been just as uncomfortable in other parts," the dwarf says and takes out a pipe. "It's not the well off that do this sort of thing. It's the poor and the brigands."

Bilbo looks at the dwarf as he pushes in a bit of leaf into his pipe and then lights it from nearby torch. "What's your name, master dwarf?"

"Baru, daughter of Barak," the dwarf says and Bilbo arches his brows in surprise. "At your service, M'lord."

He hadn't even noticed. Her tone was a little lighter than most dwarves maybe, but just as gruff as the rest. So it is true then – dwarven men and women sound roughly the same. "Bilbo Baggins, at yours," Bilbo nods to her.

"Aye, everyone knows who you are," the dwarf says and casts him a look. "'Tis not many that walk around barefooted in these parts. Just you, I reckon. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No, I'm sorry – I didn't mean to keep you from your duties," Bilbo says. She's the first dwarf from Dáin's army that has spoken to him if not kindly then at least frankly, though. He'd gotten rather carried away.

"Nothing to it," the dwarf warrior says and bows her head briskly before continuing on her steady pace down the battlements of Erebor's gates. Bilbo glances after her, wondering how many of the dwarves warriors he'd assumed to be men were actually women under all the fur and steel and beard, and then looks back to Dale.

They are lighting fires in amidst the tents, braziers and torches to light their way in the quickly descending darkness. For some reason the sight of it makes him shiver.

The winter would be long and harsh, Bilbo can feel it in his bones even through all the ludicrously lavish fur. How many of those men would feel the brunt of it – how many would be laid low by it?

Swallowing, Bilbo turns away from the gates to head inside. Later he seeks out Balin to have another look at Thranduil's contract – just to make sure it includes new arrivals as well as those men and dwarves currently present. Because if Thranduil would only feed seven hundred men when thousands more were streaming in… it would end up badly.

"He did try that, mind you," Balin says while Bilbo slumps with relief at the wording – _all men and dwarves present, even should their numbers increase_ … "The Elvenking tried it with Erebor – counted our heads and tried to pin down numbers on how many he'd supply food for. Ludicrous proposition – we'll have more dwarves coming in eventually, from settlements near and far. We'd all starve, if he'd have his way."

"Thank you, Balin, for making sure it won’t come to that," Bilbo says, running a hand over his face.

"In light of the men streaming into Dale, it was damn good thing I did," Balin says. "Come spring, they'll have hell of a time of it, though, when food stops coming."

"So will we," Bilbo says and looks up. "Is something being done about that?"

"Aye, as soon as we have traders to spare we'll be starting to replenish Erebor's stores," Balin says. "We've already sent for traders and merchants all around, who are willing to sell deliver us grain and salted meats and whatnot in big enough quantities. Erebor won't be starving, rest assured – though the sooner they get here, the better I will feel about it."

Bilbo nods. "And… when might we expect more people to come?" he asks. "Thorin's people, returned, I mean?"

"Some small numbers will be coming in all throughout the winter – we've gotten word of a few individuals seeking to return to the halls of their fathers and grandfathers," Balin says. "The main bulk we won't see until next summer, next fall the latest."

"Why not?"

"They'll be coming from the Blue mountains, laddie," Balin says, giving him a look. "That's where Thorin led our people. His sister will be leading them back, but even if they set out immediately, the Misty Mountains will be covered in snow by the time they make it there. They'll have to wait after winter, before there's any hope of passing over them with carts and carriages."

"Ah," Bilbo says in realisation. "So they will have to wait."

"And so will we," Balin says and looks at him consideringly. "By the by, if you have word to sent to Shire about… anything, you might send word with our missives to Blue Mountains. It's still a wait – it takes a raven a week or two to make that trip one way. But it's faster than on foot."

Bilbo blinks and then leans back, astonished.

Shire. Sending word to Shire. He hadn't even thought of it. "I – might have letters to send, yes," he says in dawning horror. "Oh, dear, yes, I should write something."

His smial, good grief, and worse yet, his _relatives_. It's been near six months now, since he packed his backpack and just ran off, hasn't it? He hadn't thought it would take this long – a month, two at most, had been his hopelessly naïve belief back then. He'd left thinking it'd be a long sort of walking holiday, not a year long _drudge_ through half the world.

It's not yet been a year, thankfully, by which point he'd be pronounced dead and his smial and worldly possessions auctioned in lack of a will. If he sends a word now and has it verified as coming from him, it would do for a proof of his survival, then… then what?

He needs to do something with Bag End. Something with… with his home, that is his home no longer.

"Oh dear," Bilbo murmurs faintly, running a hand over his hair as he realises finally and fully that he is never going back to Shire.

Balin looks at him sympathetically and pats his shoulder. "I'll have Ori deliver you some paper and writing things, so you may begin working out what to say," he says. "Take your time – ravens are flying out every other day now. You'll have plenty of chances to send your letters."

"Yes, I suppose I will. Thank you," Bilbo says and wanders off in something of a daze.

Bag End, he thinks with a twist of _agony_.

He's never going to see Bag End again.

* * *

 

He's been settled, Bilbo eventually finds, in the royal apartments.

Thorin sleeps now in the King's rooms, of course, in the grandest and most lavish rooms in all of Erebor with fireplace in each room – which, considering they're half a mile into rock, is no small thing. Chimneys in Erebor are an enormously huge deal, being so hard to manage at such lengths and depths, which is why actual fireplaces within the mountain are rare – rooms are instead heated by pipework of hot water that is heated within the great forges in enormous boilers, or smaller ones strewn about the city. But Thorin, being the king, has the luxury of actual fires.

Bilbo's rooms have a fireplace too, and it's strange to think it as opulence. Bag Eng had had a fireplace of course, and a boiler naturally to heat water with, but it had also had four different stoves in each bed rooms. Even those are a luxury in Erebor, where the flow of air it self has to be managed.

"Wouldn't do for all of Erebor to choke on smoke, now would it?" Bofur had said with a wink, giving Bilbo the strangest sort of nightmares about Smaug and smoke and fire and all sorts of horrible things. It's made infinitely worse when the great mines are finally opened – and the bodies discovered.

A good hundred dwarves had fled into the mines when Smaug had come. Each and every one of them had died there – choked to death or starved, is hard to tell now, they're so long dead.

In his lavish rooms, where the floors are covered in soft and warm carpets, where the beds are thick with down, where the walls are covered in heavy curtains and tapestries and everything is just… incredibly rich, Bilbo feels both comfortable and utterly out of place. Compared to the coldness of the rest of Erebor it is nice to have rooms so warm, for all that they are twice the size of Bag End, and most of that in their sheer, unnecessary height. They're the height of a man, and taller, for no particularly good reason other than to look grand.

He doesn't think he will ever get used to the opulence – the rich dark stone of his mantelpiece, where a natural seam of gold has been left in the stone to gleam in dire light. The tapestries are woven with golden thread as accents and the bed that's his alone could've housed a whole hoard of hobbits beside him. It all feels too big and too grand, and he misses the comfortable, enclosed spaces of a hobbit's smial terribly.

He doesn't complain, though. Instead he sits down by his opulent fireplace with its luxurious fire, and with his toes sunk into the thick threading of the carpet, he sets out to write his letters to Shire – wondering about the future of his smial, and his own future in Erebor.

Thorin comes in while he's detailing his mockery of a Will to his uncle. He doesn't have an heir, he likes none of his relations in particular and in the end he has half a mind to just let them auction everything off and not think about it further than that. The heartbreak of having to leave it to _someone_ is bad enough, but to decide to whom to leave it when he doesn't like any of them much to actually favour them in his Will…

"What is this, then?" Thorin asks, sitting beside him and winding an arm around Bilbo.

"My fortunes in Shire to be spent," Bilbo sighs, running a hand over his mouth. "My smial and what's in it, I need to leave it and my things to someone."

Thorin freezes momentarily at that and then peers into his writings – Bilbo lets him, too frustrated to feel ashamed of fretting over such small a fortune to spend. "Must you leave it to someone at all? It is yours, why not just keep it?"

"I'm never going to see it again, Thorin, it's a waste to leave it empty when someone might live in it, start a family within it," Bilbo sighs and leans back. "I think I will let my uncle decide who to give it – he and my mother were close and he will know better than to give it to someone undeserving."

"You… have an uncle?" Thorin asks, blinking.

"I have aunts and uncles and cousins to spare," Bilbo scoffs. "Dozens on my mother's side alone, and dozens more on my father's too."

"I didn't know you had relatives," Thorin says, sounding almost astonished, as he eyes Bilbo. "You live alone."

Bilbo shrugs. "My mother and father weren't as clannish as most hobbits, they wished for their privacy. Hobbiton is rather a settlement of young couples in that way – all new houses and smials for the newly wed, and their families-to-be. Had they lived, I imagine you would've found Bag End full of hobbits."

Of course, had it been full of hobbits, he doubts Gandalf would have selected it as the destination for bunch of unruly dwarves. A lone hobbit is much easier to sway to foolish things, than a whole crowd of them.

"I see," Thorin muses, stroking his hand up and down Bilbo's back.

"I'm sorry, was there something you needed?" Bilbo asks.

"I missed your company," Thorin says. "We had a meeting concerning some of the stores in Erebor – goods bought over a hundred years ago, which might be sold now. You should have been there."

"Sorry, I didn't know about it," Bilbo says with a sigh.

"You would have, had you stayed by my side," Thorin says with a mild frown, and then shakes his head. "Never mind. Your uncle is the executor of your Will, then?"

"Well, not precisely. I haven't got a Will, really. But Uncle Isumbras has some authority, as the Thain, so if I leave the decision in his hands, no one will much disprove it, I don't think," Bilbo sighs and thinks to Bag End. "I just wish…" he trails off. Wish he would’ve thought to bring more than just a backpack of clothes and snacks, all of which had been lost in Misty Mountains anyway.

Thorin eyes him, blinking slowly. "That you could go back?" he asks.

"No, never," Bilbo says and thinks, _yes, I wish that_. "Only… there are things in my smial I would like to have. My parents portraits, my mother's glory box," on which Fíli and Kíli and scraped their boots on, he thinks sadly. "Few mathoms, maybe. My clothing, certainly."

Thorin blinks again and his eyes seem to clear a little. "I can have them fetched – dwarves of Ered Luin would gladly do it for us," he says. "Just tell me what you want back and I will have it done."

"You don't need to do that, Thorin," Bilbo sighs. "It's just some worthless knick knacks."

"If you want it, then it is not worthless," Thorin says and takes his chin in his hand, making him face him. "If you wish it, I will have the whole smial taken apart and delivered and rebuild here, in Erebor, for you to enjoy."

"Don't be ridiculous," Bilbo laughs – because it sounds terrifyingly like he'd really do that, tear Bilbo's childhood home apart board by board and then rebuild it half a world away. "Good grief, Thorin. I – can make a list of mementos I would wish to get back, but please leave Bag End where it is, as it is."

"Whatever you wish, my burglar," Thorin says and leans to rest his brow on Bilbo's. "Whatever you wish."

Bilbo sighs and tangles his hand momentarily on the furs of Thorin's coat and doesn't say anything for a moment, just breathing in the scent of fur and metal.

It's feels oddly petty to worry about his smial and his worthless things here, in Erebor, surrounded by all this splendour and wealth. Especially knowing how close he is to forever claiming it – for Thorin is painfully honest. Whatever Bilbo asks, Thorin will give him.

And after all that they'd gone through, all the horrors they'd seen, nothing frightens him more.


	6. Chapter 6

Bilbo had tried his best to keep his distance to the actual act of ruling Erebor. In part it's because of the looks given to him by Dáin and those of his people who have come to manage certain aspects of Erebor in lack of better options. Mostly it's because of the sway he knows his word has over Thorin. He's not blind to it, Thorin's… fixation with him.

His place isn't in that court anyway – what does he, a mere hobbit from the faraway land of the Shire where the deepest cave ever dug was someone's cold cellar, know about the ruling of a mountain kingdom? Erebor's size alone makes it difficult for him to grasp the enormity of the task, and the less he thinks of the gold, the better. Erebor isn't a plot of land spread across the distances – it does up and down as well as across the mountain, in enormous halls and great corridors that seem bigger the more Bilbo sees of them.

City, he'd originally thought. City it had seemed, Erebor and Dale, co-existing in harmony. But Erebor isn't really a city. Take all the levels and all the tunnels and set them all on equal level and Erebor is easily the size of a kingdom. It's just that how intricately woven it is makes it seem so small, from the outside. But no, you could fit hundreds of thousands of people in Erebor – perhaps millions.

Dwarves are used to thinking in those terms – their worlds are at an axis Bilbo can't quite think at, their lands have depth as well as width. That too makes him a little leery about taking any part in the management of it. Give him a farm, maybe an estate or two top side and he knows what to do with those, but mines and tunnels and vaults and natural ravines that run deep into the mountain's root?

Better for him to leave all that to people who know and understand it. Erebor is his home now, yes, but it isn't really his world and he doubts it ever will be. Better leave it to dwarves, he says.

But Thorin has wisened up to his avoidance and will not have it any longer.

"You promised me you'd stand by my side," the Dwarf King says firmly. "So stand by my side."

"I promised to stand for you and _stay_ by your side, Thorin," Bilbo says carefully. "You know I can't _stand_ by your side, not like that."

It's the wrong thing to say – the right because he knows and Thorin knows and _everyone knows_ he is right. But Thorin will not have it either, his expression turning mulish at the face of it, his eyes narrowed. Bilbo sighs at the expression and then rests a hand on Thorin's chest, quickly working out how to soften the blow.

"I will stay by your side, always," he says. "And if you want me there, then I will be there – but don't make hasty decisions on my account. I told you – you needn't make me official. I'll stay and I will help you rather by my own choice, than because of duty."

Thorin struggles with it for a moment and then relents a little, looking down to Bilbo's hand and then touching it, pressing it against the furs of his great coat. "I would have you crowned by my side," he murmurs.

"I would not," Bilbo says and looks down. "What is a crown to a hobbit? Seems like a dreadfully heavy thing to be carrying around, I'd really rather not be forced to bear it."

But should Thorin demand it, he would. He knows he would. So it's not much of an argument to make, really.

Thorin sighs and entwines their fingers. "I asked Balin what a Thain is, what your Uncle's position is. He's the ruler of your land. You're a prince yourself, or at least related to royalty."

"Oh, poppycock," Bilbo scoffs. "The Thain isn't the ruler of our lands – a lord, maybe, with some measure of respect and responsibility bestowed on him, but he's hardly a king."

"Hmm," Thorin says, rubbing the back of his hand with wide, rough printed thumb. "How does the relation work?"

Bilbo sighs and bows his head momentarily – but if he doesn't say then Thorin would have someone research it and judging by what Balin had came up with, it would probably be wrong. "My mother's father was the Thain before my uncle," Bilbo says and gives him a look. "And if you're thinking of lines of inheritance," something the dwarves are increasingly worried about, as Thorin has no direct heirs now, "then if I go by your dwarven ways of inheritance I am at most the eleventh in line of inheritance – near twenty sixth, if you count the girls in inheritance. Which we would, as hobbits, do."

Thorin arches his brows. "Son of a princess, then," he says.

"No," Bilbo says firmly. "Not in the slightest, get that notion out of your head."

That finally brings a small chuckle from Thorin's lips and the hardness of his conviction softens a little. "If you wish," he says. "I will speak of it no further, and I will not force a position upon you if you’d rather not have one. But, Bilbo, you must understand… I must do _something_."

It's said with some level of frustration and Bilbo wonders what social mores of dwarven kind is in work now. The same that makes Bofur and Bombur call them _majesties_ as if they're a plural, that makes Dáin's men call him _their lord_ even though he is no such thing. If Thorin has difficulty saying it, then it's likely something more complicated.

"I'll talk with Balin," Bilbo promises it. "But please, make no decisions now, decree no laws. We'll figure something out."

Thorin sighs and nods, lifting Bilbo's hand to kiss his fingers. "I'm almost healed now," he hums and gives Bilbo a look. "Óin says I may begin carrying a sword again, that I might do some practice with it again."

Bilbo almost forcibly keeps himself from gulping at that, and smiles instead. "That is good news," he says, and gently flicks Thorin's lips with his fingers. "That's good news, indeed."

Thorin hums with dark promise and kisses his fingers before lowering their hands. "Now come, the council awaits us."

* * *

 

Most of meetings of the rather ramshackle council of Erebor are more of less informal. It's going through various reports about what has been recently discovered, repaired or removed from the mountain – Bofur's reports from the mines, Balin's from the libraries, Bombur reporting the food, how he's beginning to store some of the surplus coming from the elves, Dáin's men reporting the security of the mountain, the going-ons in Dale… and of course Glóin near daily report of the treasury, which he's now become the official manager of.

There are other things too, of course. Bifur along with some of the more smithy-minded dwarves from Iron Hills are going through the plumbing of Erebor at a quick pace, shutting down what they may and fixing what they can. The extensive pipework that supports not only Erebor's heating but also its sewer system as well as its water system is in bad repair after so many decades untended, and there are numerous leaks everywhere. There are sections of mines that are actually flooded, because of broken pipework.

"I've sent word to Iron Hills, we've already begun working on the replacements," Dáin tells them, as they listen to the increasingly high list of things to replace – what sound like miles and miles of pipework and connections and valves and whatnot. "If the snows keep away a little longer, I might have the first shipment brought in before the month's end, granted, of course, that you're going to pay for it, cousin."

Thorin rubs at his forehead and sighs. "Yes, Dáin, I am willing," he says, begrudgingly. "You will sort out the payment with Bifur and Glóin, I'm sure you will come up with reasonable sort of fee."

Bilbo sits by Thorin's side, a hand on the dwarf king's knee and he's not sure if it's help or not until the surprised, relieved look shared between the other members at the large, rectangular council table. Balin's eyebrows all but shoot up and he casts a Bilbo a glance.

So, payment doesn't come easily for Thorin, usually. Interesting.

"That's… mighty good to hear," Dáin says, looking between Thorin and Bilbo beside him. Not for the first time, Dáin looks at the silver steel shirt, his eyes narrowed. "I hear your boilers might need some repairing also," he then says slowly.

Bifur mutters something in khuzdul and Bofur nods, leaning back. "Rusted right through, most of them," he sighs. "That's what happens when you leave big things of iron, even rust treated, full of water for hundred years or more."

"And how much would that take to replace?" Thorin asks, scowling.

"Not necessarily replace, but they need some new plating and some repair work – for which we need a smith," Bofur says, folding his arms and looking to Balin and Dwalin. "There's no hurry, I don't think – it's not like we can even put them to use before the plumbing is all in order. But eventually… they'll need repair."

Thorin frowns and for a moment Bilbo wonders if he'd go out his way to fix the boilers himself just to spare himself the cost, seeing as he too is skilled in smith work according to Balin. But, as Bilbo grips his knee gently, Thorin shakes his head. "Make an estimation of the work, then, when and how it needs be done," he says and leans back. "To the next matter, then."

Dáin hesitates for a moment, looking at Bilbo. He seems to make a decision then and he looks up to Thorin. "There's been… mutterings," he says slowly and seriously and leans closer. "Movement in the Orocarni."

Thorin blinks at that and then lifts his chin. "The Red Mountains," he says.

"You had delegate from the Ironfists at your little shindig in Blue Mountains, you might recall," Dáin says, giving him a look. "And the word has had some time to spread – everyone knows the Lonely Mountain has been retaken and re-settled, the dragon dead at last. Worse yet, they know that it's been resettled by a… smaller force. Whether they know that we from Iron Hills are with you or not, I do not know. But there are mutterings."

Bilbo frowns as a tense, uneasy silence descends on the group, and all eyes turn to Thorin to see how he takes this odd news. Ironfists sound like a dwarven clan, but Bilbo doesn't now much at all about the others – only Durin's Folk, the Longbeards, are familiar to him. This news seems to make everyone nervous though, so it is no small thing.

"They would not try anything during winter," Thorin says.

"Perhaps – but spring might find Erebor stronger," Dáin comments, giving him a meaningful look. "Erebor as it stands now is the weakest it might ever be found. It might be enough to tempt a lord to march into the mouth of winter."

Bilbo wants to ask but doesn't dare as Thorin runs a hand over his beard, thinking on it. "With forces required it would take them a month at the very least to reach here," he says.

"Two is more likely," Balin, who is taking out some maps, says worriedly.

"A smaller force might make the trip in three weeks, riding," Dáin says and folds his arm. "Riders from the Orocarni reach Iron Hills in only little over two and it's only five days of hard riding from Iron Hills to the Lonely Mountain."

"At the end of which they will have dead horses and tired riders," Dwalin scoffs.

"Horses might die and a rider might need rest, but one man is enough to make trouble," Dáin says grimly and motions one of his warriors to come closer. "Tell us of the Men."

It's Baru, daughter of Barak, the guardswoman who mans the gates of Erebor now. "They are fighting amongst themselves, in the camp," she says. "I've even seen hangings, down there. There's little order in Dale now that more people are streaming in, and Lord Bard seems to have no forces to keep the city in peace. It's a powder keg waiting for a spark."

"A spark which might be a dwarf, whispering words of riches in the ears of greedy men," Dáin says darkly. "Of which there will be plenty, down there."

"They would not dare," Thorin whispered.

"Like they didn't, before, when the elven pisspot marched his host up to your door?" Dáin asks grimly. "The Ironfists hold no love for us Durin's Folk, Thorin. And Men are… Men."

Bilbo swallows, trying to keep up. It sounds like they're talking of war. They _are_ talking of war, at least the very real possibility of it, but not really with men nor with orcs… but dwarves. Dwarves fighting dwarves. "Surely not," he murmurs and looks to Balin, who shakes his head silently and turns to his maps.

Thorin says nothing for a long moment, staring at Dáin. Then he turns to Balin. "Send a raven to the Orocarni, to watch their movement."

"I'll send several," Balin says grimly. "So they may fly back when something occurs."

"Good," Thorin says and strokes his chin. "In the meanwhile, we need to start bolstering our stores. Bombur, Glóin, any word of the traders?"

"We've found some likely ones with the Men – not in Dale, mind you, but further south, and towards the Rhun," Glóin says, taking out some papers. "They might make the trip up to Erebor, at a price. But it might yet be a hefty one, especially if the situation in Dale is getting as bad as it sounds – they'll need to hire guards or the supplies might never make it here."

Thorin grits his teeth. "Bombur, draw some numbers, figure how much we need to manage if besieged," he says.

"Aye, I can do that," Bombur says with a frown and folds his arms over his impressive belly. "This time of the year we'll have a hard time scrounging up stores, you realise. Even with the elven king's supplies… it won't be easy."

The mention of Thranduil makes Thorin scowl but he doesn't make the obvious leap of logic there – neither does anyone else.

"Why not just buy food from the elves?" Bilbo asks warily, leaning to talk to Balin alone.

"We can't while there is contract in place," Balin says under his breath. "It would take renegotiation and Thranduil would not make it easy or cheap for us. As it is, it's a bad time to be asking aid from elves."

"Do what you can, Bombur," Thorin says and looks at Bilbo. Bilbo makes a hopeless face at him – he has no word of advice to offer, he knows nothing about matters of this nature. All he can do is squeeze Thorin's thigh and hope it comes across as comforting. Thorin nods and then turns his eyes to Dáin. "Will you stand with us, if it comes to it?" he asks.

"Against the Ironfists?" Dáin asks and scoffs. "Cousin, it would be my utmost _pleasure_."

* * *

 

Bilbo catches up with Balin later, hoping for some explanation – and he gets it in plenty.

"It's a long standing grudge that dates back to the time when dwarves still settled Mount Gundabad," Balin says grimly. "But more relevant is that they stood with us in the war for the Misty Mountains that ended in Azanulbizar – and their losses were as heavy as ours. It rekindled a number of old grudges and began many more anew – and was largely the reason why it was only us thirteen, and you as our fourteenth, that marched upon Erebor."

The old dwarf runs a hand over his beard and sighs. "Their mountains, the Red Mountains of Orocarni, are stable but hardly rich. They mine aplenty in those mountains but the Red Mountains are much like our Blue Mountains in the west – and nowhere near wealthy as Erebor."

"And once more, it’s the riches that matter?" Bilbo asks quietly.

"We are dwarves, my hobbit friend, I'm afraid there's hardly getting around it. The wealth and worth of Erebor is immeasurable," Balin sighs. "It might very well be the single wealthiest kingdom in existence in our age. And it is severely undefended. Who wouldn't be tempted?"

Bilbo swallows and sits down on the couch in Balin's office, which is already covered by bookshelves and dozens of scrolls. Balin, Thorin's main advisor, has become something of a manager of all the affairs of Erebor right now, and all reports eventually end up in his office. Thorin, they've all silently agreed, should not be forced to handle the numbers of the management before he feels fit to do so.

It's not a position Balin enjoys – after all, as advisor he is duty bound to serve as the devil's advocate to Thorin, and now he's in charge of relaying important intelligence to him, honest and unbiased. It's not a position the old dwarf thrives in.

"So it must come to war?" Bilbo asks while eying the shelves full of books and scrolls.

"Hopefully not _must_ , but the possibility is very real and must be taken as such," Balin says and gives him a grim smile. "Hope for the best – prepare for the worst, Bilbo. Now, is there something I can help you with? There is work I need be doing."

Bilbo sighs. "Yes, there is," he says and looks to the old dwarf. "Thorin."

"Ah," Balin says and sighs. "Has it finally come to it? Has he asked you to marry him?"

Bilbo almost laughs at that and it sounds a little hysterical. "Good grief, thankfully not yet. I've managed to discourage that kind of thinking, somehow," he says and looks away. "But he keeps saying he must do something and I fear if I stall for too long he might decide something… drastic."

"Hmm," Balin says and considers his desk for a moment before walking around it. "He behaved better in the meeting with you there," he says then. "And I think he knows that. You settle him in ways the rest of us cannot – without you he's… unreasonable. I think he realises that."

Bilbo sighs and looks down for a moment. They none of them dare to say it out loud – but it's terrifyingly obvious _why_. "What must I do, Balin?" he asks. "He can't _marry_ me." They hadn't yet even… _good grief_ , he can't even think it.

"I daresay he could, and he damn well would if you gave him the word. But the result of it might doom us all," Balin sighs and moves to his side, sitting down on the couch beside Bilbo with a heavy sigh. "You're right to stall it, but at the same time you're right and so is he – he must do _something_. You have too much power over him to not have something to show for it."

"What does that mean?" Bilbo asks worriedly.

"Outwardly, it isn't obvious what you get out of it," Balin explains, giving him a sympathetic look. "You have the ear of the king, Bilbo, and he goes out of his way to please you. That's bad enough, but you've not gained much from it, which is worse. Place in Erebor, some clothes, fine for anyone, but…."

Balin looks him over and Bilbo squirms in the rich furs he wears, which he still haven't truly gotten used to. He feels more like a haystack, than finely dressed… anybody under it all, never mind a _hobbit_.

It probably shows on his face, for Balin shakes his head. "You stand beside the wealthiest king in these lands and you don't look it," he says frankly. "If he now gave you titles and riches and power to wield, it would settle lot of minds. They could look at your rank and say, _so this is what his end goal is, this is what he gains_. But you've gained nothing. And so the assumption is… you want everything."

Bilbo turns his eyes away sharply, staring at the floor. The one thing he'd feared – "Dáin's people think it?" he asks worriedly. "Already?"

Balin looks at him and it's telling enough. "Thorin can't marry you, though he may want to," he says heavily and looks away. "Maybe if the lads had lived Erebor could endure it, but now…"

Bilbo nods, bowing his head a little. One of the things he'd learned so far at least about dwarven courts – succession is enormously important. As is a rule ensured by heirs and line of inheritance. Thorin knows it too – he's not yet so mad as to break it by in deed pronouncing himself forever childless. And worse yet, the next in line to Erebor's throne would be Dáin – and if Dáin is confirmed as the crown prince of Erebor… then what point is there to having Thorin for a king in the first place? The Iron Hills are strong, they have their own armies – and Dáin already has heirs. His rule would be affirmed in ways Thorin's isn't right now.

Thorin would marry one day and the sooner the better – but he would not marry a male hobbit.

Shakily running his hands over his face Bilbo wonders, just for a moment, if it had been easier for all if he just… disappeared from Erebor. No question about Thorin's allegiances or his rule, no worry about his madness mangling his line of succession, or bending him to a will of an outsider hobbit. He would be open to marry with no awkward male… _whatever_ Bilbo is to him, mucking it all up. Nothing to hinder the proper dwarven way of life.

Except maybe Thorin's madness, spiralling out of control with nothing to aim it at.

"Why must this be so complicated, why can't I just…?" Bilbo whispers and buries his face in his hands for a moment. Balin rests a hand on his back, consoling, but he offers no solution. "What must I do, Balin, to make it right?"

Balin draws a breath and then releases. "Let Thorin give you a title and honours," he says and stands. "I have a suggestion prepared for it, actually – something I think you could manage."

He produces a paper and maps, that mark a section of a land. Bilbo stares at in horror – a whole swathe of the mountain side encircled in red, and marked as potential _West_ _County_ _of Lonely Mountain to be bequeath to Lord Bilbo Baggins of King Thorin's court_.

"You can't be serious," Bilbo whispers. It's not the whole mountain, and thank heavens, but it is a good swathe of the side of it. The sloping hills they'd traversed to get up to the mountain, the rocky inclines… from the Backdoor of Erebor all the way to Ravenhill. The route between Erebor and Dale isn't included, quite, but it's a rock throw's away from it. "This, this is enormous, it's ten times the size of Hobbiton!"

"Aye, and small besides, all things considered," Balin says and brings forth another map. "Erebor owns these lands, as being part of the mountain – Dale's land begins here. Chances are the field in between will remain unclaimed, no-man's-land, which will be safest for all."

"You can't be serious," Bilbo says again in mounting horror. "I can't be given this!"

Balin chuckles. "It's more symbolic than anything, Bilbo. It is just the topside, you understand, nothing below it – and it's mostly worthless land," he says plainly. "It was forest before Smaug and now it's rock and grass – no one would want it, except for the leverage it might give to Erebor. Which, all things considered… makes it a good thing to bequeath you. It will be seen as great thing, a powerful position never mind it's a meaningful spot of land… but it's mostly worthless."

Bilbo looks up. "You –" he starts to say and then frowns. "You are talking about giving a huge swathe of land to a _hobbit,_ " he says slowly, not sure the dwarf actually understand what he's suggesting.

"Land on which nothing much grows and no one lives," Balin points out.

Bilbo shakes his head in wonder. He really doesn't understand. "Do you know what the Shire was like before hobbits settled it?" he asks slowly. "It wasn't so different from how the lands of Erebor are now."

Balin considers that and then shakes his head. "This isn't the Shire, lad," he says gently.

"But I am still a hobbit. If you give me land and make it my responsibility, I will try and tame and _farm_ that land," Bilbo says, trying to somehow convey the idea. "I couldn't _not_ , any more than a Dwarf could have a gold mine and _not_ mine it!"

Now Balin's eyebrows rise, and something of a realisation dawns on him. "Oh, indeed?" he asks and strokes his beard. "Then it's an ideal thing to give to a hobbit, if you actually place value and worth to it yourself."

Bilbo makes a choked noise. "You – can't," he says helplessly and wrings his hands. "I can't – it's, you don't understand –"

"No, I think I do," Balin says and grasps his shoulder. "This is just the thing to settle our courts. You see it as valuable and treat it as such, and so will they – and if you go cross-purposes on _what_ about it is valuable well, who is to tell? It's a perfect solution – and it will greatly settle Thorin's mind," he adds meaningfully. "After all, if you have land here, and claim to his mountain…"

Then Thorin will know, once and for all, that Bilbo is staying.

Bilbo shakes his head, dismayed. "This is too much," he says, even though the thought is settling now and as horrifying as it is, he is starting to understand it. Balin eyes him with eyebrows raised and waits and finally Bilbo sighs. "Oh, fine – but if it _must_ be done, at least make the land be on the southern side," Bilbo sighs. "And give me the benefit of not being in the mountain's shadow for most of the day."

Balin claps his shoulder triumphantly. "I'm sure we can choose some for you," he says.

* * *

 

Bilbo leaves it to Balin to whisper the suggestion to Thorin's ear, and to spread it around all and sundry. There are some mutterings from Dáin's warriors, and Dáin himself gives Bilbo some narrowed looks, but Thorin warms up to the notion immediately and as is his nature now - with terrible overzealousness.

"I adjusted the designs, a little, I think it’s suitable," Thorin says, while pushing him towards his desk where the maps are spread, with Balin's hand marking some areas and then Thorin's markings expanding them. "I thought – here," the dwarf king motions past Bilbo's shoulder while pressing close to his back, all but covering him. "I will build your palace here."

"My – my palace?" Bilbo asks with horror and looks at him over his shoulder. "Thorin –!"

"Did I not promise you a palace of glass and silver?" Thorin asks, eyes shining. "You may rest assured that I intend to deliver – the moment we have the workers and this nonsense with the Ironfists and Iron Hills and all the rest is settled, I will have it begun. Right here, I will build you the greatest greenhouse ever seen, the envy of all, with spires that reach the sky and catch all the light."

"Thorin, honestly, I need no such –"

"A shining, glowing palace," Thorin murmurs and presses his lips to Bilbo's temple, "for my most precious, _precious_ hobbit."

Bilbo sways in his hold and looks warily down to where Thorin's finger rests on the map.

He's pointing at Ravenhill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, no Consort Bilbo here.


	7. Chapter 7

It's midwinter.

Bilbo realises it slowly and somewhat belatedly. Hobbitish new year is just around the corner and so he has been away from Shire for good eight, nearly nine months – and in Erebor three now. Snow covers the mountainside thickly and forms sludge under the feet of men in Dale and around it, and he's been away from home the longest he's ever been. Not that Shire is home anymore, nor should he think it as such.

He'd been right about Erebor's winter being cold and harsh, for all that it can hardly even be felt within the mountain. The snow never comes down gently – it comes carried by a wind that throws it more sideways than not, and the temperatures remain on the uncomfortable side of cold. The gentle wintry days are rare and few, judging by what he hears, and hardly celebrated. No snow fights in Erebor, it seems. And no mid-winter celebrations either, dwarves place no honours to the dead months of the year.

Bilbo considers for a while putting up some kind of bunting for mid winter and Yule. Erebor has gotten so quiet and sullen of late that it might cheer things up a little, but… there's no bunting to put up, and he doesn't know if it would be appreciated or further looked down upon. He's already making such ado about himself, according to Dáin, that he'd probably better not.

Well, if winter's back is about broken and the year turning soon towards spring, towards longer and hopefully brighter days, he has something to look forward to. Spring, and his new plot of land to examine. That's something, at least.

* * *

 

Thorin heals and eventually Óin pronounces him to be off full health, no care needed to be taken, and no caution to be exercised. Thorin celebrates this by getting into a fight with Dáin, his elven sword against Dáin's hammerwith all the Erebor – and it's hundreds of dwarven guests – to see.

"What on _earth_ is going on?" Bilbo asks, hopeless, as they shed their coats and cloaks and _crowns_ to take up heavy armours and _arms_ instead while around them the dwarves cheer.

"Thorin, proving himself," Balin leans in to explain. "He's been poorly for so long that there's some whispers about him being feeble."

"More of that dwarven nonsense about him not being fit to rule?" Bilbo asks with dismay.

Balin laughs, but it sounds tense.

"Thorin will bash Dáin's head right in and put an end to it," Dwalin agrees on Bilbo's other side, folding his arms. "You'll see, there ain't nothing to worry about."

Bilbo looks up to him in dismay and then down to the impromptu arena they had made of the Gallery of Kings, where the spectators stand amongst the statues and Thorin faces against his Cousin where once upon a time they fought a dragon. The golden floor is now long gone, of course, broken apart and stored in seven corners of the dwarven kingdom, but there are still signs of it on the floor. It had not come off easily, and there are cracks on the floor, marks where the molten gold had singed it.

"Come, then, cousin," Dáin coaxes and swings his massive hammer around. "Show me what the King under the Mountain is made of!"

"I'll show you the blunt edge of my sword as a kindness," Thorin answers, his eyes gleaming with determination. "Rather than take your head off with the sharp."

Bilbo shivers – he knows that tone of voice all too well. Dáin doesn't, though – doesn't see the truth in Thorin's eyes or hear the mad glee in his voice – the dwarf lord laughs and grasps his hammer with two hands and waits for Thorin to launch into an attack. Which, with a grin, he does.

It's a terrible, ghastly thing to see. Thorin is a good fighter, Bilbo knows as much, and Dáin is like a wagon loaded heavy with rocks rolling down a hill, utterly unstoppable once in motion. They clash against each other with a sound that seems to rattle the mountain, so loud the bang of it is – before Thorin deftly directs Dáin's hammer aside and bangs the hilt of his sword. It's a terrible, flailing chaos of wild swings from Dáin's part as he lets the hammer swing and fly, and lot of ducking and weaving from Thorin's part as he tries to avoid direct hit and get his own in.

The rest of the finesse of the fight goes rather beyond Bilbo's understanding. He'd been given some small direction on how to use his elven dagger, but that was little compared to the massive weapons wielded by the two dwarf lords. Still, Balin murmurs occasionally in approval and Dwalin grunts, satisfied, at some particularly good move Thorin does that to Bilbo rather looks like threatens to take his head off.

There's a terrible moment when Dáin hits Thorin, very nearly straight on, with his hammer – it sends Thorin skidding to the side a few terrible inches and the breath leaves every spectator in sympathy as he crumbles down on the blow. Bilbo wrings his hands, horrified, half a mind to set forward to – to _do_ something.

Then Thorin's hand shoots out and he grabs the hammer trapped under his elbow, trapping it further while his sword comes up. Orcrist clangs, hard and heavy, on Dáin's helmet and sends it flying before the blade comes to Dáin's neck.

"Yield, Cousin," Thorin says, breathless, while some dwarves cheer, others boo.

"Aye," Dáin laughs and pushes the blade aside. "Aye, I yield. Good fight, Thorin, very good fight."

Bilbo only barely manages to keep himself from launching forward to catch Thorin when Dáin removes his hammer, and thus the support Thorin leaned on. The blow that Thorin had turned into a grapple had _hit_ and it must've hurt – but Thorin manages to stand on his own power and lift his sword in victory, shouting, "Dúrin nûr ai-kheluz!" to the crowd. "Dúrin Nûr natu-ansa!"

The crowd cheers, taking out their swords and axes and hammers and lifting them in a roaring salute and apparently, thankfully, that's enough. As the lines of spectators break, Bilbo hurries forward and to Thorin's side – his now _good_ side. Thorin's arm winds around his shoulders immediately and his weight comes down on him even as Thorin waves his sword around, shouting few more battle cries, as if he's not shaking with pain.

And Bilbo – Bilbo is _furious_.

Dáin looks at them and calls, "Dúrin nûr ai-kheluz," as well, turning to his men and thankfully, distracts the crowd enough for Bilbo to get Thorin away.

* * *

 

"Well, it's a bruise," Óin pronounces the _thing_ Dáin had left on Thorin's side. "But nothing's broken or torn – it'll be tender few days, I'm sure, but, it's nothing dangerous. Just don't do anything to make it hurt and you'll be fine."

"Thank you, Óin," Bilbo says tightly, arms folded to keep himself from flailing in anger. Thorin looks ghastly, his side swollen and going purple and he's wincing in pain and it all could've been avoided if only dwarves were bit more _reasonab_ le, but no, of course not, that is far too much to ask.

"Do nothing strenuous for few days and it'll be fine," Óin says, patting Bilbo's tense shoulder and then taking his leave – leaving an angry hobbit alone with a deeply satisfied dwarf.

"It was a good fight," Thorin says, smiling.

Bilbo has just about had it now. "Save me the theatrics of dwarves," he snaps and looks at Thorin, sitting shirtless and not in the least contrite on a divan in the royal apartment. "Look at you! You've only just healed and now you're hurt again! Is this going to become a habit with you now – the moment you heal from a previous injury you run headlong into next one?!"

Thorin looks up with surprise. "Bilbo," he says, astonished. "I'm hardly injured – it's just a bruise – "

"It's a bruise that covers half of your side!" Bilbo snaps and steps closer to look. "It's going to cover you from ribs to hip by tomorrow – oh, look at this," he mutters, dismayed, while very gently prodding at the edges of the swelling. "It must hurt something fierce – why did you have to do such a stupid thing?"

"It was for a _purpose_ ," Thorin says, eyeing at him with confused interest. "If the Ironfists are coming – and Stiffbeards with them, no doubt – Dáin's men need to know they aren't backing a weak king. It needed to be done."

"Oh, yes, I heard, Balin and Dwalin told me," Bilbo mutters, examining the bruise further while Thorin holds his arm out of the way. "Dwarves! Why can't you rely on the wisdom of your leaders and the intelligence of the company they keep – why must everything always come down to this?!"

"How do Hobbits decide on such things?"

"Usually by _wits_ ," Bilbo grumbles and looks up. Thorin looks amused which only ticks him off further.  "Don't give me that, you fool of a dwarf – do you have any idea how it was to stand there and watch you get hurt?!"

"Bilbo, peace, I hardly got hurt at all," Thorin laughs and holds out a hand to soothe him. "Dáin would have never hurt me badly and my life was never at risk – Dáin would not kill me," he says, smiling at him, something hard in his eyes. "He would not _dare_."

Bilbo scoffs at that, though it's probably true enough – Dáin is many things and always hard to please, but he's not so stupid as to kill his own cousin. If he did, there'd be a damned hard price to pay – which Bilbo would've been happy enough to make him pay himself, if it had to.

"At least promise me this need not happen again," Bilbo demands and looks at Thorin.

"Dwarven might is proven in battle, Bilbo," Thorin says plainly. "I can't promise I need not prove mine again. Our people have yet to return, you know, there might be…”

Bilbo's eyes narrow and Thorin trails away in a laugh. "Oh, how mad you are!" he says and reaches to touch Bilbo's hot cheek. "What's made you so fierce, my hobbit? It was only a spar."

"You, getting _hurt_ ," Bilbo says and pushes at his shoulder a little. "I do not like seeing you hurt."

"Do I look terribly hurt to you? Do I look unwell?" Thorin asks, smiling, the fool, and Bilbo looks him over. Then he takes another look, blinking.

Thorin is sitting there shirtless, and it hadn't quite registered to Bilbo before. Sure, he had seen Thorin undressed before, he'd even seen Óin treat to his wounds before, back in Beorn's Hut an age ago when the run in with the orcs had left him in dire straits. Thorin has put on a little weight since then and no longer looks quite as lean as he did before – something Bilbo knows can be credited to the shipments of food from Woodland realm.

He doesn't look unwell – he looks healthier than Bilbo has seen him in a while. "You look bruised," Bilbo says, more to be contrary than anything, and looks him over again, wondering.

It's just them, now, no crowd of nosy dwarves around them and a wizard besides, watching over with a curious, suspicious eye. And no serious injury, either, keeping them apart for safety's sake.

"Bilbo," Thorin says, smiling, and takes his hand. "My ferocious hobbit. Come here."

Bilbo goes, as if drawn by an invisible leash, and it seems perfectly natural to step into the space between Thorin's knees and cradle his head in his hands. "Did I frighten you, my burglar?" Thorin asks while winding his powerful arms around Bilbo's waist. "I did not mean to."

"You never do," Bilbo grumbles and leans down to rest their brows together. "I would appreciate a little less fear for your life in mine, thank you _very much_. Fool of a dwarf. Does it hurt very much?"

"I would not mind it if you kissed it better," Thorin grins and his hands wander down, down from Bilbo's waist to his backside, squeezing it none too gently through the Mithril mail. "I wouldn't mind a little reward for my hard day's work."

Bilbo tsks, swaying in his grip for a moment and then decides – no, he will not have this. He will do and be a lot of things for Thorin, but he won't be his _prize_. "I'm not your reward, Thorin Oakenshield," Bilbo says firmly. "Especially not by these sorts of bouts of foolishness. I'm not a thing you win at the end of bout that _endangers your stupid life_!"

Thorin blinks slowly and something in his expression _crumbles_ in momentary confusion. He hesitates, looking at him "What are you then, Bilbo Baggins?" he asks fingers gripping and then releasing. "What are you to me?"

Bilbo frowns, pushing Thorin's hair, still little damp from the fight, from his face. What is he, then, after all is said and done and before everything ahead of them? He can't be a husband and he daren't be an advisor, nor can he be a councillor on Thorin's Court, not really. He'll be a Lord if he has to be, and he'll be nobility if it's demanded of him, but what, under all that, is he to Thorin? A friend, a lover, a beloved?

"I'm yours," Bilbo says finally, and it comes out harsher than it needs to. "Now and always. You need not win me or claim me or buy me, Thorin – I'm already yours."

Thorin draws a breath and stares at him in something that looks like amazement – and a little like greed. Then, with shaking hands, he grasps Bilbo by the waist and pulls him closer. "You are," he murmurs. "You are. You are mine. Mine alone."

"Oh damnit," Bilbo mutters, half dismayed, but then Thorin is pulling him down to a kiss that threatens to devour him and definitely drains all the air from his lungs and all thoughts from his head, leaving him reeling into Thorin's hold. "You are one bothersome dwarf," Bilbo grumbles against his lips even while sliding down into Thorin's lap, carefully avoiding the bruised side. "A person isn't a thing to _own_."

"But I own you," Thorin says in drunken delight, mouthing at his cheek. "You are _mine_. My own, my precious hobbit."

"Oh good _grief_ with you, you blasted –" Bilbo breathes when Thorin's lips press hotly to his ear and he's pressed tightly against his front, while his hands wander, without shame, over Bilbo's backside and down to – "Bed, Thorin," Bilbo yelps as he feels fingers pressing and kneading where no one has touched him in, oh heavens, in _years_. "We have beds aplenty, we're not doing this on a divan in your sitting room!"

Thorin laughs against his neck and presses a kiss there, his fingers pressing through the cloth of his trousers – oh, _goodness_ , his hands are so big, his fingers unyielding. Bilbo breathes, not sure which way to push to try and get away from Thorin – his hands, he finds, are grabbing at Thorin's bare shoulder, fingers splayed against the tattoos there, just as greedy for the firm feel of it as Thorin seems to be for him.

"Bed," Thorin rumbles against his skin when Bilbo somewhat indulgently grinds against the hardness of his body.

"Bed," Bilbo agrees, but neither of them move. Bilbo looks down to him, finding himself oddly amazed by the fact that he's there. Thorin is just _there_ , in his arms, groping greedily at his bottom and staring up at him with drunken lust. "Oh, damn you," Bilbo whispers, stroking his hands up Thorin's shoulders to his neck, to tilt his head back to look at him fully, stunned by what he sees.

Thorin is so handsome – Bilbo daren't linger on it most of the time, but now and here, he can't quite think past it. Thorin is like a perfectly carved masterpiece, all smooth and straight lines and high cheekbones, dramatic highlights and shadows. The darkness of his hair and beard and eyebrows, silver threaded through it here and there where age had touched him – he's _gorgeous_ and it quite takes Bilbo's breath away.

But there's an anger beating in Bilbo's breast too, because as gorgeous as his stupid dwarf is, that doesn't make him less a stupid damn _dwarf_ , going about risking his life for nonsense reasons and – ugh! Bilbo isn't sure what he wants to do more, kiss for being so dear or hit him for being so mad! He rather wants to lock Thorin up in these rooms and never let him go, so he may enjoy his good looks and lovely body - and his damned safety without having to worry about him getting his lovely foolish self killed!

"I've gone through inordinate amount of trouble to keep you alive, Thorin Oakenshield," Bilbo mutters, bothered and enthralled all at once. It's almost distressing, how much he feels right now. "Don't you dare go around my back trying to lose it, now."

"I'm sorry, my hobbit, I shan't make you worry again," Thorin says and hums deep in his throat, the sound of it shuddering under Bilbo's fingers as the hobbit presses his thumb there, where the sound comes from. A little sound escapes Bilbo's lips, as he realises he's holding Thorin where he is most vulnerable – his throat where the breath and blood flows is just under his hands.

Just a press there, hard enough, and Thorin would choke. So easily his life would be cut short. _Hell_ , even Bilbo could do it now from this position, and sure Thorin could probably stop it but all it would take is a knife – like the one at his very own belt – to make a terrible, permanent injury.

Just that easily, Thorin could be taken from him.

The thought is there and gone in a blink and Bilbo reels for a moment – then he presses down, pushing Thorin onto the divan. The dwarf lord yields with a rumbling laugh as he lays back, his hair splayed across the divan's cushions, his body bared. Then Bilbo moves to cover him, putting himself in between Thorin and all the dangers outside the space between them.

And Thorin succumbs to it. He looks lovely, Bilbo thinks in a haze, yielding to him so. It's how he should always be – precious and protected and _conquered_.

"I, oh," Bilbo breathes in confusion, staring at him in stunned _lust_. "Thorin, I," he says, appalled and unsure but wanting – and oh, how he _wants_.

Thorin hums and tilts his head back while pushing down with his body. He's only adjusting his position, trying to squirm up so that his head more fully on the cushions, but it arches his broad chest up, his neck, he looks so _open_ , so vulnerable – Bilbo whines at the sight of him and launches into an attack, scrambling up Thorin's body to kiss him desperately.

Thorin's moan is the sweetest thing as he easily accepts the claim Bilbo greedily lays on him, half mad with sudden, golden, lust.

* * *

 

Bilbo can't sleep.

Thorin lays beside him, loose and warm in sleep with Bilbo's cape hanging half on his waist in place of a proper blanket – they had never gotten off the divan, in the end. The fire is still burning in the sitting room, though, and it's warm and pleasant enough. At least Thorin seems to think so, for he's dead asleep and he looks… content.

Bilbo can't think, though. His mind trips from thought to thought and he can't hold onto any of them – he thinks of Thorin's hand on his and his on Thorin, thinks of consequences for this – thinks and worries at the dawn, what it would bring. Surely everyone would know, and it would reflect bad on all.

He's now Thorin's lover out of wedlock. And he would be such until a wedding would lock Thorin down – and probably remain such even after. They're entwined in so many deep ways he doesn't think he can ever be untangled from Thorin. Like their hands entwined, their lives are mashed together and Bilbo thinks pulling away might kill him. Thorin's sanity hangs on the balance and Bilbo…

Bilbo can't _think_. He can hardly breathe, the warm air and the scent of their lovemaking lingering and choking him.

"I need air," Bilbo whispers and looks to Thorin, who remains deep asleep.

It's no trouble to untangle himself from Thorin and slip away – Thorin doesn't so much as stir as Bilbo dons his clothes back on. Bilbo replaces his cloak on Thorin's bare body with the dwarf's own fur lined coat and pulls his cloak on before taking his silent leave of his confusing, precious lover.

Outside the corridor, Bilbo breathes in and out – and then almost jumps out of his skin when he hears footsteps, a guard patrol on it's way. For a moment he looks around for cover but there's little to be had in the corridor and then he remembers – of course, he doesn't need to find cover, does he?

The golden magic ring slips into his finger easily and world mutes into soft whites and greys and Bilbo draws a breath and holds it. The patrol of two dwarven guards comes around the corner and marches past him in clatter of plate and mail and Bilbo breathes out, slowly.

It's always seemed so confusing, this strange nature of the invisible world, but now… now it's soothing the burning in his chest, like a cool wind on his heated skin. Safe and unseen, Bilbo feels… calmer than he thinks he's felt in days, perhaps months.

He really should have thought to use the ring before – there has certainly been moments he's needed a break in the security of invisibility. He needs to remember to do it more often in future. Now though, now he needs some air to clear and cool his fool head.

Erebor is quiet around him as he heads towards the gates. Underground there is no time of day, not a natural sort of time anyway, but dwarves still heed the call of night time and so the population of the kingdom is mostly asleep, aside from few guards that Bilbo avoids with ease. The silence echoes into eternity, it seems, into the enormous halls and expansive corridors, and everything feels so big – while all the same, feeling terribly confined.

Bilbo slips past the guards and watched doors and to the battlements of the gate, slumping in relief when he feels the touch of cold air. There are two guards there – Baru isn't on duty at this time of the night, it's two dwarves Bilbo doesn't know, so he remains unseen as he steps up to the stone baluster that separates him from the winds and the world outside.

Then he breathes, deeply, in and out and tries to feel like he isn't about to burst out of his skin. Then he looks down, to the snow-covered front yard of Erebor.

He hasn't set a foot outside the mountain in months, not beyond these stone gates. He has not set a foot on _soil_ since following Thorin into Erebor.

Tugging the fur-lined hood up and tugging his cape to himself, Bilbo sways in the frosty wind and hangs his head for a moment. He feels calmer – and oddly detached from himself. Like part of him had stayed with Thorin, the _feeling_ part of him and what's left here is the shell of his body, thoughtless and emotionless and blissfully calm. Except not really _thoughtless_ because now he can't _stop thinking_. He hadn't been able to sleep for the thought of it.

So many things are different now, so many things will be different from here on, and he has no idea how they would affect things in future. All he can is worry and worry and worry…

Scrubbing a hand over his face Bilbo glances to the guards, but they do not see him, do not know him to be there. Bilbo looks at the gates, down the battlements and their machicolations. Then, making a decision perhaps too abruptly and without a second thought, he moves to where he once climbed down from the gates, down the wall beside it. It's all frost covered now, a little slippery – but hobbit toes find footholds easily enough, hobbit hands following them down.

Dropping from a small ledge to another, all the way down, Bilbo eventually hits snow. It melts under the soles of his feet, he can feel it sinking between his toes, but he hardly cares. He's on the ground – not on polished stone, but _ground_. It's covered in thick snow and his footsteps would tell where he'd been even if vision would not, but he does not care.

Grounded, for the first time in months. He's missed the feeling.

Shivering and tucking his cape tighter around himself, Bilbo sets out for Dale.

It's a long walk, but not long enough to clear his head. The wind tears at him invisible though he is, and everything spins and whirls around him, snowflakes and thoughts all dancing in air. Still Bilbo feels the heat of the night in his bones – the frost is not enough to cool his head, only making it feel hotter, making him feel feverish. And maybe he is, maybe he's _sick_.

Maybe Thorin's sickness had leaked onto him, for he feels a little _mad_ within his own head.

He reaches the camp that had grown around Dale first – though it's hardly a camp anymore. There is a settled quality to the tents pinched there. Some are build up with snow, Bilbo sees, with walls of snow build around them to block out the wind – some natural, some hand crafted. Between the tents there are pathways that had been made by people's passing, and the snow there is dark and dirty.

Here and there, it's soiled. Under the spell of invisibility colours bleed, but it looks red to Bilbo's eyes.

Then he sees the bodies – sees the terrible thing hung onto awkward square between tents, a wood beam erected between two poles. Three bodies hang from it by ropes around their necks, with wooden signs nailed to their chests. _Criminal_ says one sign, _murderer_ says another – the third is so covered in snow and ice that he can't tell what it reads, but it's probably something similar.

Bilbo stares at them for a while, not sure he understands what he's seeing. Of course he knows Men hang their criminals, if they're bad enough, but he hadn't… hadn't expected to ever _see_ it. Especially not here, not in Dale.

Confused, Bilbo continues on, feeling even less clear-headed than before.

Some of Dale's wall has been repaired – with smaller stone and blocks of wood, judging by the looks of it, but it has been repaired. Whether it is to keep enemies or the encamped men out, Bilbo doesn't know – but it's hardly enough to keep him away. There's hand holds aplenty on the broken, badly repaired wall and he makes up it with ease, lifting himself up to the wall and looking upon Dale.

There are fires burning in the streets, torches and braziers lighting the way. Men march down there, armed with swords and wearing chainmail and armour, most of then with helmets. They look old, rustic, possibly relics of Dale before Smaug.

In the distance, Bilbo can hear the sound of struggle, a cry, a metal clang. A fight cut very short, very fast.

Dale looks dirty. Its streets are covered in blackened sludge of snow and there is a frozen stench of sewage in air. A lot of the buildings have been repaired, and the light streaming from their windows looks warm – but it doesn't look… good.  It doesn't look like a settlement rebuilt, re-established and on the way to retaining past glory.

Bilbo has no word for what Dale looks like, not really. It reminds him of Lake-town, really, with its depressive air of downtrodden misery and filth. It looks… ill. And nothing like he imagined it would, from the stories of how Dale had been, and from the Men's wishes of how it would be.

Surely Bard wouldn't rule his city the same way the Master of Laketown had ruled his? Bard seemed like such a good, honourable man; surely he would've done better by his people than this?  He had meant to rebuild, hadn't he, to rebuild Dale and resettle it as it once had been, a great trading city of the east? What had happened to that?

Bilbo hesitates on the wall, balancing on its edge in a crouch, one hand on the wood and stone for balance. The dwarves had been ignoring Dale except to keep an eye that no men strayed Erebor's way, but aside from that they had not cared. Bilbo hadn't either, really, until he hoped to find it… find it what, better off than Erebor?

It certainly doesn't seem better off now.

His hopes of finding some clarity of vision in Dale might've been all for naught, but now that he's here, he might as well have a look around.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for murder.

It's a bad time to be eavesdropping, middle of the night as it is. Like in Erebor, most of Dale's people seem to be asleep, aside from few ramshackle guards that pace the streets nervously and some drunken louts trying to make their way through the snow with less than stellar success. In the end Bilbo finds the most people – and hopefully the most answers – in the most obvious place: the pub.

Slipping into the tavern isn't very hard. The doors are loose enough that the winter winds make them shift and creak and when Bilbo slips in, unseen and unheard except for the sound of the door, no one so much as glances at the door's way. Inside it's all Men, of course, it being city of Men, and most of those Men look like they're on their last cups. Early night revelry is long past and people have moved onto that quiet, more sullen stage of the night where fires burn low and people nod over their glasses, yet too stubborn to head home but getting too tired to party.

Perfect time, if men are at all like hobbits when it comes to their drinking, to hear people complain.

"… cold and cold, all you ever talk about," someone mutters as Bilbo weaves through the tables and chairs on tiptoes. "We're all blooming cold, every damn house in this damn place has the wind blowing through it like we're living in houses made of nets – nothing but holes in 'em, I tell ya."

"It's doing my back in, is all," another man answers, frowning at his cup a little. "You know, how I hurt my back way back –"

"Yeah, yeah, everyone knows how you hurt your back, who cares…"

Bilbo moves past the pair silently towards another table, where four men are leaning in towards each other in conspiratorial whispers.

"… beyond measure," one of them is saying as he gets closer. "I was there, you know, during the fighting, and after – and we heard some of the dwarves talk. From floor to ceiling they reach, the mounds of gold – enough to bury a dragon in."

"Everyone knows that, Eddy," another man grumbles. "And we ain’t gonna see none of it, so I don't see the point –"

"The point is what are the dwarves doing with it all? Nothing," the first man, Eddy, says and motions with his wooden pint. "They sit on it and brood it like it'll hatch them some eggs for breakfast and – "

"That don't make no sense – you brood eggs to hatch _chicks_ , like, little birds. Eggs don't hatch more eggs – "

"They don't? Right, they don't. Whatever, just shut up and listen to me," Eddy snaps at the other man. "They dwarves aren't going to do nothing with the stuff, they never 'ave and they never will. That's how dwarves are like, they just… sit on stuff for the sake of it. And meanwhile here's we, and there's barely any wood here to heat our houses or fix them – and the few we've managed to fix all leak. And we got sewage on the streets and everyone's bloody sick… We could use some of that gold, that's all I'm saying."

"Bard got gold too," another man points out. "The dwarves paid 'im."

"Bah, Bard," Eddy grumbles. "And what does he do with it, eh? Builds the Great hall, and the school and that… clinic place like that makes any sense. And buying food! The elves bring food in, and he wastes money buying some. Saving for spring, hah, while we're all freezing our asses off in the snow."

"They say the elves will stop by spring," another man says. "Once the snows melt, the food stops coming in."

"And let us starve?" Eddy asks, scowling. "They wouldn't do that! We're friends to the elves, definitely better than dwarves."

There's a silence as everyone stares at him dubiously and Bilbo moves onto another table, frowning.

"… live the week, never mind the month," they murmur in that table, one man hanging his head over his pint with tears on his face. "It's gone in 'er lungs, the doctor says, fluid or some such, she can't draw breath not that she can anyway, for the coughing. If it clears the next few days, then maybe, but it don't look like it will."

"Oh, Derk," another man says and rubs the other man's back. "Sure you should be here, and not home with her?"

"I – I just can't, I can't listen to the coughing, it's doing my head in," the man sobs and rubs at his face clumsily. "I just had to get away, it's just – all you can do is listen, there's nothing I can do to help it or stop it, it just goes on and on and I just can't listen, I can't listen to it no-more. She's coughing her bloody lungs out and I just can't -"

"Here, have more drink, Derk, there's a good man…"

From what Bilbo gathers from his eavesdropping, Winter had hit Dale hard. Having seen some of the repair job around the town, the way the houses that had been repaired _had_ been repaired, he can't help but feel that the men don't really know what they're doing in Dale. Lake-town had been mostly made of wood, build on water and upon the ruins of Esgaroth – Dale in comparison is almost all stone. And the men didn't know how to build from stone – and the patch up job they'd done on their new houses showed it.

Add to that the lack of plumbing and sewer systems and whatnot explains the filthy streets and now this, a sickness going around in the town.

Twenty thousand gold coins hadn't been enough to make good on Dale, Bilbo thinks – but it had been enough to make things just a little bit worse.

"Dale's got money now, they said, it's going to be rich again, they said, there'll be work and houses and plenty of opportunities, they said," one man grumbles. "The fuck all there is. Came all the way from Queensmallow for this dinky shit hole and for what, to freeze in a fucking tent all bloody winter?"

"We're al freezing in bloody tents, Mop, you ain't special," another man grumbles.

"And for what, huh, what for?" the first man says and points at him. "Just so that Bard and his precious lake men from that fucking wreck on the long lake can sit cosy indoors in their fancy fixed up buildings while the rest of is freeze our asses off outside."

"I hear they're running out of firewood too," another man says. "The last load they brought, it ain't gonna last for long. Few more days and we're all out again."

"At least they're still sharing it around. I hear talks that they're going to start restricting the shipments cityside – nothing for us in the camp."

"Fucking cunts, the lot of them…"

Listening in on the men, Bilbo starts sketching out a picture of what happened in Dale. The word had gone out, as they all they knew it would, about Erebor and Dale, only Dale was an open invitation compared to Erebor's closed gates. Men without work or prospects flocked in on the city in hope of cutting their teeth on the city's stone early – get houses, get jobs, get new lives in the re-settled city. Only, it hadn't turned out that way.

There are more newcomers than there are liveable houses – and tents are warmer than houses with big holes in them. And more people come in faster than new houses can be build. Add into that the lack of services – and the lack of any sort of order in the city – and things had started gone south fast. Or rather, _north_ , as it is the cold that makes everything so hard on the men.

Now they're all cold, a lot of them are sick, and judging by the sound of it everyone is discontent with the situation. Discontent at the dwarves for not sharing their plenty, again. Discontent at Bard for not doing more faster and better. Discontent at Dale, and the dragon, and the weather and at each other…

Bilbo doesn't know what to think or do about it – he doubts he even can do anything. If this is what Dale got for it's original sum of twenty thousand gold coins, what would more do for it at this point? It's not like they still can work any faster – the Long Lake is frozen now and the roads are covered in a thick blanket of snow. Any travel now is hard and slow – trade nearly impossible. Even the Woodland elves seem to have trouble with it, even though they have moved onto using elks and sleighs for the winter as opposed to horses and carts.

It's a lot of unhappiness and difficulty, but it isn't something anyone can do much to fix. Except maybe by shifting the whole population of Men into Erebor and hah, that is never happening.

Shaking his head, unseen, Bilbo turns to head for the doors of the tavern – he's been away for a while now and he should head back. It's not yet morning, but he doesn't much like the idea of risking Thorin waking up alone without anyone to tell where Bilbo might be. After the night…  

The night, which he meant to make his peace with, and which he hasn't even thought of since coming to Dale.

Sighing, Bilbo moves to push the doors of the tavern open again – and nearly gets a door in his face, when they're pushed open from the other side. Quickly, Bilbo scrambles back and then out of the way as two more patrons step inside – and then, invisible, he gapes.

One of them is a dwarf.

He's dressed in red furs and a black cloak and as he pushes his fur lined hood back Bilbo sees his face, and the metal rings that cut through his brow – iron, he thinks, not gold or silver or even bronze. His beard is long, tied with another iron ring – not braided, Bilbo notes as he frowns, confused.

Why is there a dwarf in _Dale_ when Erebor is right at its doorstep? It's not one he thinks he's ever seen before, either, and though he can't claim to know all of Dáin's people, he dares to think he knows their style of clothes at least. And this dwarf's clothes, the leather jerkin he wears and the thick band of belts he has, is unknown to him.

"Master Garak," the bartender says at the sight of the dwarf, frowning a little. "We don't want no trouble here tonight, thank you."

"Nor my coin?" the dwarf asks and brings forth a silver piece. "I only want a pint, my good sir, nothing more. And one for my friend here."

"Hmm," the bartender answers, eying the coin. "No funny business now, Master Dwarf. The night is late, too late for conspiracies."

"We'll have drinks only, never fear. A pint for me and my friend," the dwarf, Garak says, and throws the coin at the bartender. He casts a look over the crowd of drinkers then ushers his human friend towards a table which, Bilbo notes, is not as far removed from the others as the rest.

The human casts glances at the other patrons of the tavern nervously, but the dwarf shows no such unease, accepting his pint from the bartender and lifting it to his friend. "To our continued warmth and good health," he says, loud enough to be overheard even at a distance. "Drink up, it'll warm your bones."

"Nothing much will warm my bones now," the man grumbles but drinks deeply, somewhat desperately.

Garak takes a drag of his ale, not quite as long one as the man does, and then sets it down and leans in. "I'm sorry about your brother, Kall," he says then, his voice growing quieter. "Hell of a thing, what happened, and all for naught too."

"Well, it wasn't for naught, got me a house out of it," the man answers. "Me and my wife were on the short list for houses, because of Iver, what he did during the battle and all."

"And Iver, did he have a wife?"

"A widow now, she is – lives with us, she and her girl," Kall says and shakes his head. "Don't see how that matters."

"Family is important, Kall, to men and dwarves," Garak says, giving him an astonished, sympathetic look. "Of course it matters!"

Kall gives him a sullen, suspicious look while Bilbo sneaks in closer, frowning. There is something going on he can't quite put his finger on, something… suspicious.

"I have a family too, you know," Garak says conversationally. "And had more besides, before a battle took good half of it, some hundred and fifty years ago. I bet man as well read as you have heard of it – the War of Dwarves and Orcs? No? How about the Battle of Dimrill Dale?"

Kall frowns a little and shakes his head. "Can't say I've heard about that one, no," he says suspiciously.

"Well, I suppose it was bit before your time," Garak says, casting a glance around. In the table near to theirs, the men are listening, just like Bilbo is, at what is being said. "The War of Dwarves and Orcs raged across Misty Mountains, half a dwarf's lifetime ago. I was but a young dwarf then, but my brothers, oh, my brothers were warriors one and all, and when the King of Durin's Folk called upon my kin, they answered."

"Kind of Durin's folk – Thorin Oakenshield?" Kall asks, frowning.

"Nay, his grandfather. The previous King Under the Mountain – and, subsequently, the king that lost the mountain. Thrôr," Garak says and leans in a little. "You see, there was a kingdom wealthier than Erebor, once – the kingdom under the Misty Mountains. _Moria_. It was lost long ago, but after losing Erebor Thrôr, in his great clarity of mind and wisdom," he laughs, "decided only it would do for new home for his people. So he called upon the seven houses of Dwarf Lords, to begin a great war over the Misty Mountains, to reclaim Moria. Went about as well as expected…"

Bilbo hovers by the wall, frowning at nothing in particular, while Garak spins the tale of the war, and its end in Azanulbizar. Only he doesn't tell it like Balin did, long ago, he tells it differently and from a different point of view. "What brothers I had left at that point all fell in Azanulbuzar – Dimrill Dale," he says. "Nearly four thousand dwarves from my clan fell, all for naught. Though the rest got the pleasure of watching Thrôr be beheaded at the end of it all, so that was some consolation. Mad old despot, he was. Good riddance."

Bilbo's mouth gapes open and he closes it with a swallow.

Garak considers his pint, still mostly full, while Kall has drained his and gotten seconds, and the men from nearby table lean in. "From what I hear," Garak says, casting a look around. "The gem hasn't fallen far from the mine there, and Thorin Oakenshield is carved from the same stone as his grandfather."

"Went mad before the battle," a man says, Eddy from before, the man who complained about Erebor's riches. "Made promises and such to Lord Bard and barely kept any of 'em. Had to be forced to it, and even then it was like squeezing water from a rock!"

"They say it's the Dragon Sickness that got him," another man says. "Went gold mad, like his grandfather. Runs in the family, they say."

"Oh, indeed?" Garak asks, feigning astonishment. "Surely such a great dwarven lord would never –"

"Bah, great! What kind of greatness is it to sit around on pile of gold and do nothing with it!" another man scowls. "They're lazy and greedy, the lot of them, up at that damn mountain! The hell knows what they even do there – nothing probably, just sit on their fat arses and get fatter…"

"I heard that Dale and Erebor existed in unison," Garak says, dubious. "Surely the dwarves of Erebor have offered some aid to Dale? Surely that much is owed to you?"

It's like floodgates thrown open – the complaints and accusations start flying about, free and furious. "Not a single coin we've seen," one says and another, "A bloody mountain with stone but have they helped us rebuild?" and, "All they got us is a burned down Lake-town and this sorry piece of rubble – and thousands dead between both!" and, "Freezing our asses off while they sit cozy in their warm mountain hole!"

Bilbo sways, feeling confused and outraged and then _furious_ as he watches this dwarf, Garak whom he now understands to be from the Orocarni, from the Ironfists, breaths air on the kindling and turns the flickering flame of discontent into a burning blaze. By the bar, the barkeep is watching the whole thing with the sort of frustration and resignation that tells Bilbo this is hardly the first time Garak has done this.

What had Dáin said, half a forever ago – Dale is a powder keg about to go and all it needs might be a dwarf whispering words in ears of men, to start that fire? Well, here is the dwarf now, whispering words of displeasure and dishonour and, "I see, I see it now, the House of Durin has lost its honour, it certainly has lost the Respect of dwarf kind elsewhere long ago," much to the roaring agreement of angry, unhappy men.

Bilbo stares as Garak leans in, shushing the men and telling them, "Durin's line has always been mad," under his breath. "You didn't hear it from me, but it's been getting worse by the generation. Thrôr was bad, sure, but his son Thrain was even worse, a spineless coward who just up and disappeared leaving everything to his son Thorin – and now it turns out he's the worst of the lot? I'm not surprised, gentlemen, not surprised in the least."

And then, the nail on the coffin, as the men nod in grim agreement, Garak says, "It ain't right, someone like that leading a kingdom like Erebor, hoarding it all away when by right, by very legal right, he ought to be sharing. It ain't right at all, to leave the rule in hands of a madman and a _fool_."

Bilbo stares at Garak as men drink to his words in grimly satisfied agreement. He's not a young dwarf, Bilbo thinks – about Dwalin's age, perhaps, at least two hundred years old, easily. He's not a foolish dwarf either, no, the hobbit can see it plainly in his face – the dwarf is cunning and knows what he's doing. And he's doing it intentionally, instigating trouble and inciting anger and _hatred._

Bilbo leans back against the cold stone wall of the tavern, staring at the dwarf hard as Garak hides his grim satisfaction of a work well done in his pint, drinking to the Madness of Thorin Oakenshield. The world whirls around Bilbo in white and blue in the sweet invisibility of the ring and as it tugs at him, Bilbo just… just stares, not sure what to do, what can he do? He has to do something about this, but what, how?

Garak stands and lifts his pint to make a toast, "Here's to the honourable men of Dale," he says and lifts the pint higher. "And to the Mad Despot under the Mountain – may his reign be short!"

The men cheer and drink and patting Kell's shoulder comfortingly, Garak drains his cup and then turns to head off, his work done as the men continue his discussion without him, their passions incited. Garak offers the bartender a smile and another coin and the man behind the counter sighs – but accepts it. And So Garak leaves, leaving behind crowd of zealous and angry men, all calling for Thorin's head.

Almost on their own, Bilbo's feet move to follow Garak out. He thinks, distantly, to follow Garak to see where he goes, where he's staying – though what he would do with the information, he's not sure. Something, _anything_. This sort of thing can't stand, can it? No, he decides, no it can't.

No one can talk about _Thorin_ like that. Not on his watch.

Humming to himself, Garak turns to head into an alleyway and Bilbo follows him. The dwarf is going at a sedate pace and even while treading very softly on the snow to avoid being heard, Bilbo catches up to him quickly enough. In the black and white space of invisibility there is no real darkness, and Bilbo's eyes catch a gleam of light on metal at Garak's waist. A belt buckle, and belt, holding a sheath of a knife.

Bilbo doesn't really think what he does. His mind just _stops_ there, at that gleam of a knife hilt on Garak's waist. It's… rather like a dream, or like it’s someone else in control of his hand, when it reaches out to grab the blade, sliding it out of its sheath. Garak never notices, humming still as he goes, swaying slightly.

Next moment, there is warmth spilling over Bilbo's hand. At first he doesn't really understand it, he thinks he's spilled tea on himself, something like that, except there is no tea, he's outside, it's cold, there's snow under his feet – and the stuff on his hand is red.

Garak draws a sharp pained breath and whirls around, his movements echoing in to the suddenly maddening strangeness of invisibility. It doesn't feel quite real, as the dwarf turns and looks for the one that stabbed him, scrabbling at the wound on his back, looking for the cause.

"What – what is this, what sorcery is this?!" Garak gasps. "Show yourself, demon! Show yourself!"

Behind him Bilbo can hear the sounds of men, drawn in by the dwarf's shouting, but he doesn't care. It wasn't a killing blow, he thinks in oddly dreamy haze. He hit too low, in mid back. Garak might yet live – live to spew his hatred and anger and incite war elsewhere. He might live to tell the tale - and speak more vile lies about Thorin.

 _No, he won’t_ , Bilbo thinks with dark determination, and moves forward to sink the knife into Garak's chest, properly this time – under the ribs and into the lungs, just like Dwalin once showed him. The dwarf croaks and bows into the blow and then crumbles down, taking the knife from Bilbo’s hand as blood spills heavy and hot onto the dirty snow.

"Aznân ai-Azunr," the dwarf curses with his last, rattling breath. "Aznân ai-Azunr, Dúrin nûr. _Aznân ai-az_ …"


	9. Chapter 9

Bilbo made it back to Erebor somehow, and back inside and eventually even to his own rooms, without being seen. Some bit of reason still properly functioning in the back of his head has him washing his hands and then his tunic, rinsing the blood off the silver mail with gentle swipes until all signs of the deed are gone and he's left half naked with a wet tunic and the realisation that he'd… killed someone.

He'd walked up to a dwarf he'd not really known and stabbed them, not just once but twice for good measure, with every intention of ending their life. Which he had. He'd killed someone. He'd _murdered_ someone.

The thought rattles in his head but it doesn't really go anywhere – it's like a rock inside his mind that he can't get around. He should go to Thorin – he killed someone. He should go to bed – he killed someone. He should get some sleep – he killed someone. People will be worried, suspicious, if he goes into next day tired and exhausted – he killed someone.

He killed someone.

Bilbo picks at his nails to get the last bits of blood off and then he sits on the toilet in his fancy dwarven bathroom where water runs crystal clear and cold and everything is shining marble. His hands look normal, he thinks, and tugs at his fingers, examining the joints. His palms have lost the hardness of handling a sword and climbing he'd done during the actual Quest, and the calluses of working in a nice old hobbit garden have been lost even longer than that. His hands are soft, a proper gentlehobbit's hand.

He can still feel the knife there, the grip a little too wide in his hand with grooves that dug into his palm – he can feel the weight of it, the resistance, and then the give as it sank through cloth and skin into flesh. He can feel the heat of blood, spilling onto his hand. For a moment, he thinks he almost sees it.

He's still wearing the ring, he realises, and finally takes it off.

The world settles.

And he still can't think past the fact that he'd _killed someone_.

It's not the first time, he thinks, flipping the little magic ring idly in his fingers. He's killed wargs and goblins and orcs during the quest, and never thought twice about it, never lingered on it for long. Why was this different at all? Because that had been in heat of battle? The dwarf was a threat, one of different nature than an orc coming for his life, but a threat nonetheless. A threat to Thorin.

He can't and won't withstand threats to Thorin, can he?

Bilbo considers the thought wearily, thinking of the spiteful words spoken, the scent of dangerous trouble in air, and no… no, of course he can't withstand threats to Thorin.

So then, it was good thing to kill the dwarf. He removed a dangerous threat. He'd protected Thorin – stood for him, like he promised, and considering how little he can do as it is… it was a good thing. Wasn't it?

He killed someone.

He removed a threat.

He _killed someone_.

Bilbo runs a hand over his face and then shoves the golden ring in his pocket, where it belongs. "Bebother and confusticate you too, Bilbo Baggins, and the things you do," he murmurs and stands on shaking feet. "Off to bed with you, and may morning bring some sense into your fool head."

* * *

 

It's not dawn yet when he wakes with the feel of someone's gaze on him. Bilbo startles awake, his hand shooting downwards to reach for the Ring before his mind catches up with his body – it must be Thorin, he's the only one with access to Bilbo's bedroom and considering last night… Oh, it feels forever ago now and why had he ever left Thorin's side at all? He should have at least though to return to Thorin's rooms, it would be less suspicious that way, and surely Thorin would think him reluctant or regretful if he stayed away now…

It's not Thorin though. There is a dwarf standing over him, true enough, with a hood of dark purple over his head and a glint of long beads in intricately woven beard.

Bilbo stares, uncomprehending for a moment, and then he recognizes Nori – whom he now realises he has not seen in _months_.

"I covered your tracks, I'll have you know," the dwarf says and turns away, to pull Bilbo's dressing table's bench closer to the bed and sit down it. "Literally, I covered your tracks."

"I'm - sorry?" Bilbo asks, with the cold feeling of dismay and fear kindling in his belly.

" _Footprints_ –  you don't have to be a tracker to find that a wee bit suspicious, you know," Nori says and pushes his hood back, to reveal moisture in his hair and hint of frost bite on his cheeks. "You're lucky I was already watching Garak and got suspicious when I found him dead. What you were thinking I should like to know, but here," he says and throws something at Bilbo's bedspreads. "To cover your troubles. Hah."

Bilbo stares, befuddled, at the little coin purse now sitting on his bedsheets. It looks dwarven. "Nori, I don't understand," he says. "How do you – how do you know it was – "

"Footprints! Leading all the way from Dale to Erebor – footprints of a _naked foot_!" Nori says. "Be glad it started snowing and they will be covered by morning, but for a while there – Bilbo, honestly, who else could it be, who walks barefooted in winter time, who else but _you_?"

Bilbo stares at him and then, slowly, sits up, letting his blanket pool in his lap. His spine feels frosted over and his blood runs cold as he stares at the dwarf in front of him, wondering, _fearing_.

"What in Mahal's name were you in Dale for anyway?" Nori asks, looking at him confusedly.

"Why were you?" Bilbo asks, wary and fearful.

Nori says nothing for a moment, folding his arms. "I was watching, listening, sneaking around. Doing what no one hereabouts cares to do and keeping eye on the Men," he says. "Dale is in a right state, a kettle about to boil over, and no one here cares. Well I do – I know how Men get. Especially, when there's a rich dwarf nearby to take the brunt of it."

Bilbo opens his mouth and then frowns, confused. "Have you been in Dale all this time?" he asks, astonished. "I haven't seen you in months."

Nori waves a hand impatiently. "What does it matter now?" he says. "You went and murdered the dwarf I was on watch for! Why?" he asks, frowning. "What were you _doing_?"

Bilbo looks away. _Murdered a dwarf_ he thinks, _I murdered a dwarf._ "Will you tell Thorin?" he asks, his fingers squeezing the sheets in his fingers.

Nori watches him closely and confusedly. "I don't see why he would care – he hasn't cared much about my work for the last few months," he says and rubs a hand under his nose. "Thorin pays no mind to Dale and neither does anyone else. It as good as doesn't exist, from what I can tell."

Bilbo swallows and runs a hand over his face. It really doesn't, does it? Sometimes it gets brought up momentarily, but only in light of distant, not very consequential source of potential trouble. Baru the guardswoman reports what she's seen from the gates but as to what is going on within the city… no one cares. No one tries to find out.

It's been months now since the Battle of Five Armies and the treaties that followed, and Thorin has had nothing to do with Bard lord of Dale. Not a word has been exchanged between their peoples. No, Thorin does not care what happens in Dale.

"I couldn't sleep I wanted to get some fresh air – I thought I might as well have a look at Dale, since it had been so long," Bilbo says quietly. "I went into a tavern and that dwarf came in and the things he said about Thorin… I couldn't bear it."

"So you stuck a knife in him?" Nori asks flatly. "What on earth made that seem like good idea?!"

"I – don't know what came over me," Bilbo whispers. "I didn't think at all. I saw his knife and…" he trails away, shaking his head. "Next thing I knew I'd stuck it in his back."

Nori says nothing for a moment, running a hand over his beard. "No one saw you," he says – it's not a question.

"No, no one saw me," Bilbo answers anyway and lowers his slightly shaking hand. "I didn't even thought about the footprints."

"You should have," Nori says with a scoff and then leans back a little, sighing. "Mind you, I was planning to do the same eventually, though not like that. Bit of wrong herb in his food maybe, or a pillow over his face during the night, something that leaves no marks. Sticking a knife to him in alleyway, that's messy… but I managed to cover your tracks."

Bilbo swallows. "T-thank you," he says and looks at the coin purse. "What is that for?" he then asks.

"Make it look like robbery. It's no secret in Dale that Garak had coin to spare, the way he treated his human _friends_ to drinks and food for the low price of listening to his spiels," Nori scoffs. "There's been attempted robbery before on his person, but now there's been a successful one. Hopefully he's not liked enough for anyone to look into it more than that."

"… I see," Bilbo murmurs, keeping his eyes low, not sure what to say or do next. He'd killed someone – and now someone knows and… and…

Bilbo looks up to find Nori considering him darkly. For a split of a moment Bilbo imagines the knife, sliding into Nori's belly instead – but no, of course not, he could never, not a friend! But the fact that the thought came up at all makes shiver.

Has he really become someone who can just kill people when they become troublesome? Has he, so fast, lost all sense?

"Have I gone mad, Nori?" Bilbo asks quietly.

"Hell if I know," Nori answers. "We're all going mad under this damn mountain – why do you think I spend so much time away from it? Dale is a Mahal damned disaster of a city, but at least people are still people down there. They're terrible people, maybe, but at least you can make sense of their motives. Here, under the mountain, everything's forged crooked."

Bilbo swallows.

"Still, it couldn't have happened to a better dwarf, what you did," Nori says and looks at him. "He'd been brewing up trouble in Dale for a week now, getting men drunk and speaking of rebellion to any ear that likes to listen. Trying to get the Men of Dale to rise up against Erebor. You know about the Ironfists, right?"

"I know they might be marching up on Erebor in future," Bilbo says quietly.

"You can take it for certain – they are. Garak was Hegar's agent, here to sneak about and look around, get the lay of the land and plant seeds of dissent," Nori says. "And if he managed to get Erebor in a fight with Dale before marching their main host up on the mountain, all the better for Hegar."

"Hegar is…"

"Lady of the Ironfists," Nori says. "She has a particular hatred for House of Durin – there was some stuff about betrothal between her and Thorin way back when that fell through when Erebor was lost, and then her brothers died in Azanulbizar and she became the Lady of the Clan and married Lord Gundar who is now King of the Ironfists. It's fun stuff."

Bilbo stares at him in astonishment. "I – never heard of that," he says worriedly. "No one told me."

Nori eyes him levelly and then hums. "Well that's the thing – no one much _cares_ in Erebor these days," he says somewhat wryly and then leans in. "Do you _want_ to know more?"

"I – don't – " Bilbo starts to say and then trails off, confused. "I don't know what you're asking me?"

"Erebor's going down the shitter," Nori says frankly and harshly. "And so's Dale. If Hegar and Gundar now march their army up to Erebor, I don't think I'd place my bets on Erebor, to be honest. Thorin's mad but not mad enough not to be listened to, his orders followed – and Dáin, for some Mahal damned reason, defers to him. Thorin's leading the whole damn mountain in this happy hike of wilful ignorance and no one much _cares_."

Bilbo stares, astonished. "How can you speak of Thorin like that?" he asks in confusion – too stunned to even be offended.

"Because it's the truth. Thorin teeters on the edge, doesn't he? It's all anyone can do to keep him from falling over himself again," Nori snaps. "And because of that, no one pays mind to things that matter – the actual real _present_ threats to Erebor! Like Garak, and what he was doing. He won't be the only one, Bilbo – and that's without even counting the men themselves and trust me, there are trouble rousers with men too. And Bard, bah," he waves a hand. "Bard can't keep order to save his life. He's good at leading people – not so good at _controlling_ them."

For a moment Bilbo just stares at him, not quite able to keep up with what he's saying. Nori is speaking with such frustrated passion too, with the sort of exasperation that must've been building for weeks, for months. "Have you spoken with Thorin with this?" Bilbo asks warily.

"I told you, he doesn't care," Nori scoffs at him. "Tells me to be off, back to work, never mind what he thinks my work actually is. Hell, I don't know myself, now," he mutters and runs a hand over his beard. "Balin listens sometimes, but he refuses to do anything, not without Thorin's approval. You're all so damn afraid of making it worse for him that none of you have the balls actually do anything."

Bilbo swallows, eying him and then looking away. Everything is happening so fast. Yesterday Thorin had fought with Dáin to prove his might and strength as the King of Erebor. Bilbo had made love with Thorin, for the first time and it had been… not quite as terribly frightening as he'd feared, but it had been strange. Feverish. And then he'd gone to Dale and… and…

And now this. He can't keep up with all of this. Months of waiting and expectations and _fears_ and now everything happens all at once.

But he gets where Nori is coming from – that terrible helplessness of not having anyone to go to. Bilbo can talk about Thorin with Balin, but it's always with the understanding that Balin can't do anything about it. They can ease the strain somewhat, but they can't fix the problem. Nori, judging by the sounds of it, doesn't even have that. He'd taken up a task he sees as important – and no one cares.

Sighing, Bilbo scrubs is hands over his face and then throws the covers back. "I need some tea," he decides, "and I need to think."

Nori sighs, exasperated. "Fine," he grunts and stands up. "I'll be off then, and thank you very much for listening, at least."

"No, don't leave," Bilbo sighs and stands up. "I'll make tea for you too, and we'll talk it through. You're right, something… something has to be done. But I need a moment to think."

Nori hesitates and then sits back down, watching him warily.

Bilbo makes his way to his kitchen, a luxury given to him by the overly luxurious rooms – it even has a working stove. There he gets out the metal kettle he'd gotten at some point from Bombur and then gets out the selection of teas Dori had found in Erebor's stores and then… then he makes tea.

And then he has a good long think.

* * *

 

Bilbo can't say anymore he doesn't know anything about the ruling of a kingdom. He might not be an expert on the matter, but he can tell when it's going wrong – and Nori is right. It is going wrong. Thorin's delicate mental state makes things difficult for them all, forcing them to tiptoe around certain subjects and gloss over others – and it's every so obvious in the way Balin and Dáin avoid even speaking of some things, and how others are covered so quickly and quicker pushed aside.

Some things, like the trouble of Orocarni, had to be addressed regardless of how they might make Thorin feel – but when Bilbo thinks about it… Dáin had only dared to bring the subject up when it became obvious that Bilbo's presence in the council table had settled Thorin's mind somewhat. Had he spoken up if Bilbo hadn't been there? How would Thorin have reacted, if he hadn't been?

Badly – either with anger or dismissal, and Bilbo isn't sure which is worse. Not with reason, not with sense, at any rate. Sipping his tea, Bilbo thinks of all the small warning signs and the moments when Balin bows his head and bites on his tongue and doesn't say what's on his mind. How many things have been left unaddressed because they simply did not dare to voice them in Thorin's presence?

Thorin was their king – and yet they none of them dared to trust him to rule.

And then there was Dale. Dale, that wallowed in Erebor's indifference and Bard's inexperience, and had grown so badly off so fast. How deeply rooted was the dissent in Dale now, how bad the discontent? Would they _do_ something about it, even without a dwarf like Garak whispering dark encouragement in their ear? Would the men of Dale rise up against Erebor?

Whether they could _manage_ to actually do any harm was neither here nor there – Erebor's gates had been rebuild and resealed and Bilbo doesn't think there'd be a way for the Men to break them now. But they could cause trouble. And all they'd need to do to make terrible trouble for Erebor would be to break the supply line from Woodland Realm.

Bilbo doubts very much Thranduil would go out his way to ensure shipments got through, if things got unstable in Dale. He'd be satisfied getting his end of the bargain _close enough_ and if close enough stopped the supply line at Dale rather than Erebor… well it was all within the signed upon agreement regardless?

For a moment Bilbo wonders if he'd inadvertently made things worse for the future, by ensuring that Dale had food also. The surplus of it supported Dale now – no one in the city had complained of hunger at least. But it also made certain that if more people came, it did not weaken the Men there, did not threaten them with starvation.

If Dale had no food to spare, would so many people have flocked into it? No. He doesn't think so. And if the people of Dale had food shortage on top of everything else… they certainly wouldn't have enough time or energy to cause trouble now, would they?

So many hopes they had, such a bright future they'd envisioned for the region – and it was all so miserable now. And Bilbo himself had hardly cared either – he'd been, like everyone else… concentrated on Thorin and keeping him happy.

That's all he wants now too, is it? He wants to keep Thorin happy. But more than that, he wants to keep him safe. And this situation – it's not a safe one, is it?

"What do you think needs be done in Dale?" Bilbo asks quietly. "To make things better?"

Nori slurps at his tea and then bangs the fine china against Bilbo's table, making him jerk a slightly. "It needs order, more than anything. Dale had no army or police force, nothing to keep peace with, so people are fighting each other, robbing from each other, killing each other. Sure you saw the hung up corpses," he says.

"I did," Bilbo says and frowns. "Did Bard have them hung?"

"No, it was a mob that did it – public justice as only Men can do it," Nori scoffs. "Bard's more lenient than that – he'll try to put you in prison before he tries to have you hanged. Some cause trouble just for the chance – he keeps his cells warm, you see. Can't say the same for the tents out there."

Bilbo sighs. "Right," he murmurs.

"Bard tries to keep people in line but he hasn't got enough men and the few he has got no training. The men that worked under Master of Lake-town, they got training, but Bard doesn't trust them, so they've not been given arms. Some of them are rousing their own trouble, offering protection for money," Nori says and shakes his head. "Every day someone gets beaten, their firewood or clothes or whatever stolen. Every day, there's more complaints. Every week someone turns up murdered. And this while more people are still coming in, thinking they'll be rich. Hah."

Bilbo bows his head and then shakes it, turning to face Nori. "So, Dale needs order," he says. "And Bard can't manage it because he hasn't the men for it. I don't… see how we could change that."

Nori watches him. "Well, there's orders to order too, you know," he says. "Not all of it comes from legal governments."

Shaking his head, Bilbo sips his tea. "I'm not sure I get your meaning," he says worriedly.

Nori eyes him steadily. "Bard's biggest problem is that under his rule, there's little consequences to crime," he says. "He's the people's champion, he deals with them all nice-like. That's why people take it in their own hands, now – they know whatever justice he decrees, it won't be a permanent, lasting punishment. He won't have a thief's hand cut and he won't have a murderer hung – he'll just have them imprisoned. So people aren't worried about making trouble – they know they won't themselves get into trouble for it. Perfect ground for someone like Garak to slip in and make things worse."

Bilbo frowns and shakes his head again. "So you think harsher punishments is the key?" he asks. "I doubt it's that easy. And even if it was, what could we do about it? I'm a hobbit, you're a dwarf – Dale is city of _Men_."

"You're a murderer and I'm a thief," Nori corrects him. "And Dale is city of ruffians and brutes."

Bilbo almost recoils from that. He'd – he'd managed to not think of it a bit, but there it is again, and now with permanence he doesn't think he can ever rid of.

"I'm a murderer," Bilbo murmurs, and runs a hand over his mouth. "I did it for Thorin," he says then and frowns. "It wasn't without cause, Garak was making trouble. He had to die." He had to – and Bilbo has to believe that now, otherwise he really might lose his mind. "He had to."

Nori looks at him, arching a brow. "Aye, that might be so," he says.  "And there are plenty of other people who could do with bit of murdering, if you ask me," Nori adds and kicks his boots off, stretching his legs out with a sigh.

Bilbo looks at him in astonishment. "Is… is that why you're telling me all this?" he asks in horror.

Nori's other braided brow rises as well. "There will be no order in Dale for months to come," he says plainly. "And Erebor will do nothing about it. Bard can't manage and if this keeps up the city will rot and turn into a even worse ruin than it already is – and no one is doing anything." He shrugs. "I can watch and make notes – but I can't do much about it. Thorin won't listen and Bard won't endure a dwarf's advice. I've got reports to make – but no one will take them. It's starting to become a nuisance."

Bilbo's mouth opens and then hangs open, as he can't quite manage to think what to say to that. "You can't possibly…"

Nori shrugs. "It's just a thought," he says and gives him a look. "It will take a hard hand to put things into right. It will take blood," he says and glances at Bilbo's hand, not so long ago covered in blood. "Beside, you're the King's Master, aren't you?" he says. "Thorin bends at the knee for you."

Swallowing, Bilbo looks away. "I'm not," he whispers.

Nori snorts derisively at him. "Everyone knows that Thorin would give Erebor to you, if you only asked it," he says darkly. "The reason you haven't been killed yet is because you're _not_ asking. Don't you think it's time you actually _do_ something about it?"

Bilbo shakes his head. "Like what?" he asks almost desperately. "I'm just one hobbit, what can I possibly do?"

"You did quite a bit tonight," Nori points out. "It was badly done, but you did it anyway. There are worse ways of starting."

 _Starting_ what, Bilbo wants to demand, but he fears he already knows. Part of him, that odd part that had felt satisfaction at Garak's death and now refused to let him feel fully sorry for it, even likes the idea. He already, in some small form, manipulates things. He doesn't like it, but… but he still does it, because he has to – for Thorin, he has to.

This too needs to be done for Thorin. It is a risk, a very present danger to Thorin's rule and to the stability of Erebor. Dale is a very real _threat_. And Nori is right, something has to be done about it and if Bard can't do it, and Erebor refuses to try it…

Bilbo thinks of the knife in his hand and blood spilling over his fingers and thinks, _fear_.

Fear is a form of control too, isn't it?


	10. Chapter 10

Bilbo sits beside Thorin on the divan and looks down on his sleeping lover. It feels like it's been year and more since he left him lying there, contently asleep after the previous evening. Bilbo doesn't feel like the same hobbit who left that divan, unable to sleep or settle. So much… so much had changed in such a short time.

Running his fingers over Thorin's hair, Bilbo leans back against the divan's cushions and sighs. Thorin looks lovely in sleep, so relaxed and calm and not a bit… worrisome. And he is oh so worrisome, isn't he? When he isn't where Bilbo can't see him Bilbo worries about what he's doing, if he's well, if he's distressed. When he's there, Bilbo worries about his fool mind and what's going on within it – what mad urge drives him this time and where. So much worry, all the time, and Bilbo doesn't think he can stop now.

If Thorin woke up this morning, miraculously better and clear headed and fully capable of taking on all challenges and threats as they came on, Bilbo thinks he would still worry about him. He'll worry over him until his dying day.

He can't really bring himself to feel sorry about it, even if life would be ever so much easier if he could just stop. But he can't anymore than he can walk away from Thorin – his roots have grown deep by now, and they're all tangled around Thorin.

It's not the sort of Love he thought he'd ever have, is it? Not that Bilbo had ever thought to throw himself into loving someone anyway – established bachelor, that was him. That was _supposed_ to be him anyway, and that was the vision of the future he'd liked. Just him alone in his big smial, in peace and quiet with no spouse to nag at his ear or kids underfoot. Thorin is and will offer none of those things, though, but still…

If he had had to have a love, he'd thought once, let it be like that of his parents. Let him be the Bungo of Belladonna's life, quiet and calm and forever content at home while the flighty love of his live flew off to adventures with wizards and expended their thirst of adventure there, to come back to his calm hearth and home at the end of it. A relatively normal hobbit life and hobbit love, where both could be what they were without pressure or need to change their ways.

With Thorin, he's bending himself backwards and twisting himself into curls to cover for the spots Thorin cannot and will not reach for. Should Bilbo's mother know, she'd beat him around the ears for being so foolish.

But no… he cannot stop now, Bilbo thinks and looks down as his fingers snag on Thorin's hair.

The dwarf mumbles and opens his eyes a little as Bilbo goes to untangle his hair. "Bilbo," Thorin hums and then turns to lie on his side, throwing one heavy arm around Bilbo's waist. His fingers tangle on the tunic Bilbo's wearing and he frowns a little. "When did you get up?"

"It wasn't long ago," Bilbo lies and smiles. "I got up to have some tea. You looked so content I didn't dare to disturb you, I'm sorry."

"Hmmm," Thorin answers and rests his cheek on Bilbo's chest, his hair now spilling over Bilbo's shoulder an arm, a curtain of warmth. "You came back to me," he murmurs. "So it's fine."

"I always come back to you," Bilbo promises and kisses his brow. "Go back to sleep, you have another hour or so before morning."

Thorin hums, nuzzling his nose to Bilbo's tunic, his beard snagging on the cloth, before his body relaxes again, turning supple and soft. Bilbo shivers, his hand coming to rest on the back of Thorin's head, cupping there, sheltering.

To keep this one precious moment safe, Bilbo thinks he could kill hundred dwarves and never feel sorry for it.

* * *

 

No word comes from Dale about the dead dwarf found on their alleyways. Bilbo waits for it with baited breath all day but there is nothing – no rider comes, no messenger bird flies and it is as if it didn't happen. Dale reports none of it to Erebor – and it makes Bilbo wonder how many other things Dale did not share, how many other things had happened in Dale that Erebor never heard of.

As far as Erebor goes, nothing has happened and nothing is happening. Thorin meets with Balin and Bofur opens another mine, and Dáin gives them word that they might get a shipment from Ironhills yet – it's slow going but still possible to travel despite the snow. Bifur has taken up the re-forging of pipework with Glóin and Bombur when they have the time, and they are thinking of starting to pump the water from the flooded mines and rooms.

Things continue on as they ever had. Bilbo stands beside Thorin through all of it, feeling as if he's looking over it all through a fogged glass. Everyone goes through their settled motions, Thorin decrees that they should prioritise the restoration of the sewer system first before starting to pump out the mines and that is the day, more or less done.

"Will you be mad with me if I spar with Dwalin today?" Thorin asks, as they walk along the grand corridors, under the judgemental gaze of dead dwarves immortalised in stone. "Nothing as taxing as with Dáin, mind you – I need to get my hand in again, I've been poorly for so long."

"Hm?" Bilbo hums and then remembers – the duel with Dáin had only been the previous day. "No, yes. I mean, of course I will be worried, but if you're careful I don't see the trouble with it, now that Óin has given the word," Bilbo sighs and squeezes Thorin's hand. "Dwalin knows better than to put a hammer to your side." Or at least he damn well _should_ know better.

Thorin smiles and kisses him quickly and briefly, an almost playful peck on his lips. "Will you come and watch?"

"I think you can handle it. This sort of violence is really not my cup of tea," Bilbo says – and oh, how ironic that statement is. "I think I'll settle in with a good book for the evening. I'll see you later?"

"Yes, I'd like that," Thorin says, interest kindling in his eyes. He kisses Bilbo again and then slides away, his fingers tracing Bilbo's to the very tips, until they part and Thorin heads one way and Bilbo the other.

It feels a little like being left adrift, to be left so in Thorin's wake. But… Bilbo has work to do now.

And the sooner he gets to it, the better.

* * *

 

Nori, Bilbo is both delighted and dismayed to find, has been keeping track of things on paper. It makes sense, considering he’s Ori's brother and Ori writes down everything, and Dori on the other side is very prim and proper, of course some of that would pass onto Nori. But it's a lot of information to go through.

Dale's whole sordid downfall is written down in Nori's notes, and it makes for a heavy reading.

It started when Bard sent for workers and materials to begin repairing Dale. A rider from Dale went out, and cartfuls of people came back – along with materials, sure, but it was the people that made the difference. Unemployed men from nearby villages who answered the call of gold and new prospects and who threw themselves into the repair work with such vigour that Bard immediately send out the word – that there'd be work aplenty for people willing to do it, promising money, food and shelter for those who then wanted to stay.

He'd hoped, Nori theorises, that he might get some dozen hardworking men to bolster the workforce of Dale, two dozen at most. The hundred men estimate from the contract with Erebor had been a wild guess on Bard's part, and a sort of insurance that he could pay everyone he hired – he'd never thought he'd get so many.

 _Five silver is high pay in these parts,_ Nori writes in his notes. _And when rumours spread that it was only part of what Bard had to offer, it turned heads._

People did not trickle in ones and twos or as families – they came in caravans. Dale got settlers in _dozens_ , doubling its population within weeks and then doubling it again in another month. By the time winter had properly settled in, there were four thousand people in Dale, then five thousand. Now there's a good seven thousand and more by Nori's estimate, and people still come.

 _The tent city is becoming a slum now,_ another jotted down note says. _They throw their waste on the streets and then melt their drinking water from the snow they walk upon. Half of them are sick. Most of those won't make it until summer._

The whole sorry affair was only made worse by the fact that Dale had food to spare. Every time it's population increased, Bard reported it to Thranduil who increased the food shipments – and so, in Dale, none knew hunger. It might be cold and miserable, but it wasn't hungry at least. And so, even when the word of gold and greatness petered off, the promise of meals still kept people coming.

The unhappiness and dissent didn't really _start_ anywhere – it was ever-present since the first people had to pitch up tents instead of being given the promised houses. Dale had, once upon a time, been able to support the population of _hundreds of thousands_ but most of those houses lay in ruin and even the better preserved ones had broken floors and no sign of roofs. Some of them had been repaired with tent canvas for roof, but stone building with no proper rooftop or insulation is a cold one, and though few of the canvas covered houses are still in use, most prefer tents.

People in Dale felt that they were owned things Bard hadn't been able to deliver – and Bilbo doesn't know if he can blame them either. It wasn't Bard's fault so many people had come, but he certainly could have done better.

In Erebor, they had decided not to permit settlement until spring at least. There were few dwarves in the Iron Hills and in nearby human settlements who would've liked to return to the halls of their fathers – but because Erebor doesn't yet have the infrastructure to support it, they'd kept their gates metaphorically closed. Come spring, people would start coming in, but not yet, not while there weren't safe way to house them.

And Erebor is objectively so much better off than Dale.

Bard had not known any better, Bilbo thinks. He had hopes, grim and resolute hopes, that ended up being too big for him to swallow. Now it's too late to send the people back – and he doesn’t have the means to manage them either. So, he concentrates on fixing as many buildings as fast as he can, in the hope of getting the people out of tents and into houses – only, more people still come. Faster than he can settle them inside the city, the slums increase further. Which, of course, only makes the disgruntlement and restlessness worse.

Now, the men of the Master of Lake-Town preach trouble to the people of Lake-Town, warning them against the newcomers and creating a divide between the two groups.

 _They say that the people of Lake-town are owned titles and honours, for the things they lost and for being among the first people to resettle in Dale,_ Nori writes. _That they should have the better houses and better food and first pick of clothes and firewood, that sort of thing. And not all disagree._

So far Dale doesn't have much in way of nobility, or government – the only thing they have is Bard and he's been tentative about naming his employees. The most he has are assistants that aren't advisors and sycophants that only make things more confusing for him. Constantly in public eye and with demands coming from all sides, the Lord of Dale is hopelessly overwhelmed – and so concentrates harder on the work of restoring the city, ignoring the pleas and prayers and accusations coming at him. Which, of course, only make people shout them louder.

Lake-town is not quite divided yet – there is no one in the city more popular than Bard, so when in doubt people defer to him first and foremost. But should a more charismatic voice rise above the others, Bard might find a fight for Dale's rule in his hand.

 _Hard to say if it'd be a bad thing either,_ Nori writes. _A greedy power hungry bastard seizing power from a rightful king is never a good thing, but when that king hasn't the faintest clue about what he's doing... who knows. Even a tyrant would do a better job than Bard is doing, right now._

Bilbo sets the books down with a sigh. Nori's reports get worse over time – becoming less factual and more derisive and annoyed. Eventually he starts writing down things like, _Had a wonderful time reporting to the king again – I think he might've actually noticed I was there this time_ , and _Great advice from Balin today – keep an eye out for trouble. Good grief, I never would've thought to do that myself,_ and _Fuck Dáin, just fuck him and his goat too_.

The frustration about seeing all the trouble brewing and no one doing anything about it gets louder and clearer. Nori had been on the brink of doing something about it himself, Bilbo suspect, before he found Bilbo and decided to make it all his problem instead.

Nori, Bilbo figures, does not much like the idea of acting on his own. To steal things, yes, maybe even to do a spot of murdering as he put it – but acting on Erebor's behalf? That's too much responsibility and better left on someone else's head.

"This is quite the read," Bilbo murmurs, setting the books down.

"Eh," Nori shrugs. "Just watching people gets boring after awhile, no matter how they're fucking things over."

"So I see," Bilbo sighs and runs a hand over his eyes. Nori had named… several troublemakers in his reports, that might do with removing. One of the Master of Lake-town's guards – Duncan – who is speaking of titles and honours for the men of Lake-town and subsequently turning lakemen against the new settlers from elsewhere. Some men among the settlers too are being trouble, getting into fights, harassing women, stealing. With Garak gone so is the main hazard, but others remain. And so does the biggest problem.

Nori says it's the lack of order, and he's not wrong either – but it's not as simple as that. Lack of shelter and lack of security are probably the main sources of disgruntlement. People have no place to live and no proper assurances they ever will, and no one will defend them if they're attacked. Bard barely has any military and the little he has is concentrated onto the city itself – in the slums, they end up being target of volley of accusations and demands and hardly can do their work at all. So he doesn't send them there anymore, which only makes the people feel more unsafe and disregarded by Bard and Dale's budding upper class.

"So," Nori says. "What do you think?"

Bilbo shakes his head. "I don't know," he admits and stands up to pace. "I don't think it's as easy as finding the main troublemakers and sticking a knife between their ribs. It might settle things for a moment, people might get too scared to rise up for a while, but…"

Nori's brow arch and he looks almost surprised. "Hm," he says, noncommittal.

"As long as Bard fails to run things properly, it'll just keep spiralling back down," Bilbo says and looks to him. "Like you said, the situation isn't about to change. There are too many people in Dale now to settle them in the city, not without years spent repairing houses and districts. And from what I can tell, Bard is already doing all he can there, nothing we can do to help him will make it much faster now."

Nori shrugs and leans back on Bilbo's couch. "That's the long and short of it, isn't it," he mutters, watching him warily.

Bilbo sighs and paces few steps forward and then back again, trying to think. Maybe this is why Balin could only offer Nori empty advice and why Thorin turned deaf ear to his reports – what can you do about something like this? Throwing gold at the problem might do something, but he doubts it would make things better, and Bilbo very much doubts Thorin would stand to have dwarves working on Dale even now. His anger at the men has turned into cold indifference now, and he acts as if Dale doesn't even exists. Bilbo could change that, but at what cost?

He will not lose Thorin's good opinion of him, not for Men of Dale. Nor will he give Dáin any more reasons to dislike him, not if what Nori says is true and his very own life hangs on the balance of him _not_ asking Thorin to give him things that aren't his to accept. Like money, power, and rule over dwarves in order to fix city of men.

Running a frustrated hand over his hair, Bilbo paces few more steps back and forth. He can't do that – but he must do _something_. Things can't be left to fester as they are.

"Dale has a lot of problems," Nori says and folds his arms. "Bad leader, bad living conditions for some, not enough workers, not enough military and still too many damn people. It's damned difficult situation Bard drove himself to."

"Too many people," Bilbo repeats and frowns, stopping his pacing and thinking. "Yes, that's the root cause of everything is it. There's too many people."

"You can't kill them all," Nori says flatly and Bilbo throws a look at him. The dwarf arches an eyebrow. "Dale might not mind a murder or two, but go on a killing spree and I think even Bard would have to do something."

"You think I could do that?" Bilbo asks, amazed.

"Yesterday I didn't think you could kill a dwarf in cold blood. It's a whole new world, today," Nori says and frowns. "You're not thinking of actually killing them all, are you?"

"Oh, honestly," Bilbo answers and looks away. "Of course not. But the people came here on their own accord, didn't they? They can just as well leave."

Nori blinks at that and then straightens up where he sits. "You mean scare them away?"

"The reason they stay is that despite everything, Dale is a cushy sort of place to be. There's food aplenty and the promise of better living _eventually_ keeps their hopes alive," Bilbo says and motions at Nori's books. "Staying in Dale is still _slightly_ better than leaving it, so they don't leave. Say we give them a reason, say we make staying just slightly worse a prospect for them."

Nori rubs a hand over his beard, thinking. "They've weathered a lot of abuse already," he says slowly. "It would take something worse than what they've already gone through…"

Bilbo nods in agreement. "Yes," he muses. "And make it bad enough to make Bard take action isn't… good either," he frowns. "Though if it makes him do his job properly, perhaps it is. Regardless… it's an idea, isn't it?"

And if they could get enough people to leave Dale, it would make it less of a threat to Erebor too. It would be a win all around, if successful.

Nori nods slowly and stands. "I'll go have a look-see, figure what might make things worse without making them… to much worse," he says and then looks at Bilbo. "It will take deaths though. No getting around that. Nothing less will make those people care now."

Bilbo takes a breath and then releases it slowly. "Well, it's still only a thought," he says then. "But I am prepared to do whatever I have to, to keep Erebor safe. Are you?"

Nori eyes him silently for a moment and then bows his head. "I'll have another report for you as soon as I can," he says.

Bilbo nods slowly, watching him go and then turning away. He paces the length of his sitting room few more steps and then stops and sighs.

He's not sure what he's starting there, what this is that he's doing. But if it has to be done, he'd get it done. Invisible with a knife in his hand if he had to, he'd get it done. And hopefully the region would be slightly safer at the end of it.

If not, then at least it would be quieter.


	11. Chapter 11

The first person Bilbo goes after to kill them intentionally and with a lot of forethought is no one particularly important.

Tegel of Rhuena is one of those newcomers who have been forced to live in the tent city slums at the outskirts of Dale, and who has been complaining about it ever since. He gives long, passionate speeches about how Dale was supposed to be great and beautiful and _rich_ and where were the houses they were promised, where was the work they were promised, where was the _pay_? He talks about it on the snowy streets, in taverns and to everyone who likes to listen and he likes nothing more than see someone he's gotten roused up standing up to Bard's few men and get into a fight.

"He's already gotten good four people thrown in prison and one got killed in the scuffle he caused," Nori tells Bilbo and gives him a look. "There are better targets though, Tegel is a bully but he's never going to be any more than that."

"It's better to start out small," Bilbo says. "If I go after the guardsman first and foremost, it will cause suspicion and Bard might start investigating. This Tegel person, will anyone care if he turns up dead?"

"Doubt it – his wife might, but only enough to celebrate it," Nori admits and Bilbo looks up in alarm. "She's young and not particularly happy with her lot in life. And he's a brute. Judging by the sound of it, theirs is not a happy marriage."

All the more reason to do away with the man, then.

"There's a thing, though, Bilbo," Nori says, watching him warily. "Footprints. You can't go barefoot again."

"I'm quieter that way," Bilbo sighs and looks down at his feet.

"Your footprints are telling," Nori says. "I can get you boots of supple leather, light as anything – or maybe sandals? Either way, you need to conceal your footprints."

Bilbo sighs again but nods in agreement – he's right, after all. Like boot-prints in Hobbiton, bare footprints here are suspicious. And whatever happens, it is better that no accusations are aimed at Erebor's way, and if he were pinned down as a suspect… it would be. "Alright," he says. "But be quick about it – I want to go tonight."

He gets his footwear by that night. They're more like sandals than shoes, with nothing but straps going over the top of the foot and thank small mercies for that – but the soles are those of most commonly used shoes in the area, toughened leather stretched over a wooden slat. It's still weird, wearing the things, and Bilbo has the urge to shake his feet as if he got something sticky stuck on them, but he endures.

He definitely won't be wearing the damn things except when absolutely necessary. But for now… he's ready to go.

Nori tells Bilbo where Tegel goes and where he might find him and it's, unsurprisingly, at a tavern. There are several unofficial taverns in the tent slums that serve watered down ale and dangerously strong moonshine, and one of them is Tegel's particular favourite – he goes there just about every night. Bilbo presses the directions to his memory and then nods.

"I'll see you in a few hours at the latest," Bilbo says.

"Good luck," Nori says, quiet and worried. "And please don't get killed, Thorin will have my head if you get killed."

"Just don't tell him you were involved, you'll be fine," Bilbo says and hesitates. What would Thorin do if he got killed? Nothing good. No, nothing good at all – Bilbo's death would likely spark the very war between Erebor and Dale he was seeking to prevent.

Better not get killed, then, Bilbo decides, his mind already made. Soon after he slips away and once out of sight he takes out his Ring. With invisibility's soothing winds tugging at his clothes, he turns to Erebor's gates, to slip away from the mountain city.

It's snowing outside, and for once there seems to be little wind – the snow drifts down in large, downy flakes and everything is perfectly silent. Bilbo's footprints seem to echo into eternity in that quiet, each step of a leather covered sole grinding against the fresh snow with sound not unlike creaking hinge and it makes him nervous and anxious. He's on edge all the way from Erebor to Dale but at least with the snow… there wouldn't be much in way of footprints.

Finding Tegel's favourite tavern isn't hart. The tavern is a tent, same as every other structure in the slums, and it's larger one than most. It's heated with a small, roughly-made metal oven and has dry, makeshift benches and tables to sit at – and one of the walls has been reinforced with bits of wood against the wind. It's not much of a tavern as Bilbo's experiences with taverns go, but beggars can't be choosers.

Bilbo goes in, silent and invisible with a dagger from Nori in his hand, and considers the situation.

He's yet to decide how he wants to do this, honestly. He's made his peace with the fact that he will kill another – he will most likely kill more in future too – but how to do it, that's the thing. Nori would, by habit more than anything, go about it the secret route. Poisons in drinks and accidents in the dark with no trace left behind. But secrecy, as much as Bilbo knows it is required, isn't the point here.

A man turning up dead for no cause can be chalked up as him dying because of an illness, not an unusual occurrence in Dale right now. That's not the result Bilbo wishes. Accident in the shadows won't make a person afraid either. Wary, perhaps, and cautious – but it won't make them afraid of the shadows, won't make them fear for their lives the way he wants them to be. The idea is to make Dale feel like a hostile place.

Bilbo wants to send a message. He wants to make people afraid of the shadows.

"Well if it isn't cold as a dwarf's heart here," Tegel is saying. "Another wonderful day in the shining, golden city of Dale. What do you say, lads, hip hip hooray for our wealth and prosperity?"

"Shut your mouth Tegel," another man grumbles. "You ain't the only one who's cold here."

"Didn't say I was," Tegel says and waves his half-empty pint around. "We're all fucking cold here. I've lost fucking toes in here. I'm just saying, it's such a richness, such a _pleasure_ , to be part of this historic moment, ain't it."

"It'll be historic, once they get their shit in order," third man says. "Come spring, you'll see. They'll be able to rebuild faster and there's farming to be done."

"Farming, here – bah!" Tegel says. "You know nothing of history, Barkey, do you? Dale never had any farms. All they had was forests, before the dragon burned them to the ground. Do you think you could make a successful farm here? Bah. The ground's tough and ashen and look at this fucking winter. The summer's cold too, I bet."

Bilbo rests a hand on his dagger hilt and considers Tegel's clothes. He's wearing a woollen jerkin and a hood over it, both dirty and ragged but thick. They're also dark.

"Besides, who's to farm it, and where? Bard's given no one land, and he ain't going to anyway, dickless coward that he is. There won't be any farms here, no fine estates, fucking nothing," Tegel says and stands up to shout at everyone in the tent. "And by spring the elven food will stop coming and we'll all _starve!_ "

"Sit your ass down, Tegel," someone shouts from the back. "No one cares."

"I'm right, you know I'm right," Tegel says and waves the pint again. "Bard will make houses for those spineless bastards from Lake-town, sit them all nice and cushy in the centre of Dale and what the fuck will we get, huh? Will he keep his promises to us, will he? He hasn't so far, why the fuck would he do so in the future? You're right, no one cares. We'll all wallow in our own shit here and no one fucking cares."

Tegel's drinking mate pulls him back to his seat, which is really more of a half broken wooden crate and that's when Bilbo sticks his knife in the man. He does it properly this time – under the ribs and upwards, right into the lung. Then, as Tegel draws a stunned, pained breath, Bilbo turns and leaves the tent.

The shouting and wailing starts just moment later, but Bilbo is already heading away, wiping the knife onto a handkerchief and putting it back in its sheath.

* * *

 

There is no word of Tegel's murder in Erebor, not officially. Life goes by as normal the following day, with same tentative meetings and Thorin taking time to spar with Dwalin. That is not to say nothing gets down – behind the scenes Erebor is steadily improving. Ori is restoring the libraries and old records with Balin, Dori and Óin are going through stores of various things and re-establishing a baseline of goods they have, including herbs of healing. Bofur with his brother and cousin and lot of Dáin's men are restoring the actual structure of Erebor. Bit by bit, progress is made.

None of it just happens to be political.

"By spring, we will have a fine kingdom to show to our people," Thorin says.

"No doubt," Bilbo agrees. "We're making good time with the restoration." Unlike Dale, he doesn't say.

"When spring comes and we open Erebor's doors to our people returned, I will show you your lands by the Mountain's side," Thorin continues. "We'll walk the slopes of Ravenhill and see where we might begin building it again. I'll hire the best artisans for it, and have it done in a month."

"Don't be silly – no construction is finished in a month," Bilbo says with a smile and takes his hand. "I can wait for mine, so as long as Erebor is doing well in the meantime. There is no hurry, Thorin. No hurry anywhere."

"Hmm," Thorin answers, lifting his hand and kissing his knuckles. "You seem so quiet now though. I'd like to see laugh again, I'd like to see you shine."

Bilbo almost frowns at that, but manages to keep it off his face. Has he been quieter? Possibly. "Winter makes us hobbits a little sullen, I'm afraid," he excuses it and offers his lover a smile. "Come spring, when I can sink my toes into good green earth again, it will be all back to normal, you'll see."

"That is good to hear," Thorin says and then looks at him, thoughtful. "I could make the title official now. Balin and Dáin as witnesses, no one could much dispute it, if I named you a Lord of this court now."

"I think that too can wait," Bilbo says, but the face Thorin gives him is an agitated one, so he sighs and relents. "Whatever you want, Thorin," he says, and then thinks of it, searching for a solution. "We could go and see them now, these lands of mine," he then says. "It's all snowed up, but you could show them to me regardless. It would be an adventure."

Who knows, maybe getting Thorin out of the mountain and having him breathe some clear air for once might do him good, even.

But no, it seems it's still too early – Thorin's expression goes tad flinty and he looks away. "Come spring," he says and kisses Bilbo's fingers again. "I will show it all to you, when spring comes and our people have returned."

"Very well, I can wait," Bilbo sighs and leans to his side. "It's something to look forward to, at any rate."

Thorin hums, and lifts a hand to cradle the back of Bilbo's head, pulling him to a kiss. Then he makes a thoughtful face. "Your hair is longer," he says.

"That happens when you don't cut it," Bilbo agrees with an amused hum. "You told me to grow it out."

"I did," Thorin says with great satisfaction and cards his big fingers through Bilbo's hair. "It's long enough to braid it now."

"Is it?" Bilbo wonders, considering the length. It is longer than a male hobbit would commonly keep it, but hardly the length of dwarven hair.

"I will make you beads," Thorin says, his eyes intent and hot on Bilbo's face, on his hair. "Yes, I will make you beads now, and braid them in as soon as possible and then none can ever look at you and not know you're mine. Would you like it?"

Bilbo hesitates, wondering at it – braids in his hair, like dwarves keep them. He knows nothing of braiding or braids and definitely nothing of the types of braids dwarves make, all intricate and delicate and meaningful.

"Well," Bilbo says. "If you're willing to do the braiding then, yes. I'm afraid I will be wholly useless at the task."

It seems to be the right thing to say, for Thorin kisses him soundly and then swears to go and make the beads right away, to get them done as soon as possible. Bilbo looks after him as he hurries off and then sighs, worried he'll end up wearing a crown's worth of jewellery in his hair. He hopes not, but with Thorin being as he is… it's hard to know.

It's a good distraction for Thorin, though, and leaves Bilbo's evening open for other activities. He spends it reading through Nori's old reports on Dale again, considering his approach on it. Culling the population is the quickest way to keep Dale in check for now, but Dale was a big city at his prime and if things settle at all between Dale and Erebor and old trade begins to open again… it would one day grow again.

He needs to consider the distant future in his actions too, as well as the immediate one. It's not a way of thinking he's much adjusted to, but it seems like some other things… he would just have to tough it out and learn.

* * *

 

Once night comes, there has been no sight of Thorin and so Nori can slip in without problem to report him what he'd then witnessed in Dale, when he'd gone sneaking about during the day.

"It seems Dale has a murderous spirit problem," Nori says, making a face. "Seeing that an invisible _thing_ is going around stabbing people. They're calling it the Aznan-Aiaz. Or just the Assassin, which I figure is what they think it means."

"What does it mean then?" Bilbo asks, frowning as he rubs at his feet. The sandals he wore the previous night had chafed the skin between his toes, something he hadn't even thought possible with hobbit feet before. They've been itching all day, but of course he hasn't been able to scratch it. "Aznan-Aiaz, what is it, then?"

"Something Garak shouted when _he_ was killed by invisible assassin," Nori says and looks at him. "I figure it comes from Aznân Ai-Azunr."

Bilbo looks up at that, thinking back. "Yeah, he was… shouting that when he died," he says. "What does it mean?"

"Aznân Ai-Azunr? It's a curse," Nori says. "It means _darkness upon your land_. Basically wishing all the worst for you."

Bilbo frowns. "That's not very nice, is it?" he murmurs and tugs his foot up to his lap to rub at the reddened skin at the base of his big toe.

"Well, neither is killing people," Nori says and folds his arms. "How do you do it? You just walked up to him in a tent full of people and knifed him – how did no one see you?"

Bilbo hums but doesn't answer. "Do you think Bard will react?"

"Tch, doubt it," Nori says. "The tale is spreading and growing in the retelling, and it's not the first time superstition and ghost stories have gone around in the city. Half of the people there think that Ghosts of the Dragon Slain are still there and haunting them – half of the deaths in that city is credited to one curse or another. You're just one boogieman among others."

Bilbo nods slowly and looks down at his foot. "Might be to our benefit," he says and drops the foot onto the floor again with a sigh. "Aside from rumours of boogiemen, was there other reaction?"

"Tegel's wife, turns out, wasn't happy," Nori says. "But aside from that, no one cared much cared. The ghost story was more interesting than the actual death."

"Good," Bilbo says, frowning. "We'll give it a couple of days and then I'll go again – unless things change. In the meanwhile, find me a target."

"I'll have several to choose from," Nori says and considers it. "You know, if we only go after the troublemakers, it will end up being bit suspicious eventually."

"Then find me someone _everyone_ will be happy to see dead," Bilbo says and stands up. "Now excuse me, I'm going to find a vat of hot water to soak my feet in."

* * *

 

Thorin's fingers are deft and skilled on Bilbo's hair as they manipulate the curly strands into even braids. One at each side of Bilbo's face, just in front of his ears – each with long golden bead on which Bilbo can recognize Thorin's sigils and symbols. But then there are also other braids and other beads that Thorin wishes to put in – small braids here and there, with little beads to enhance them and glitter in candle light.

"Lovely," Thorin murmurs once he's done, sinking his fingers into Bilbo's hair and instantly making a mess of it by pinning Bilbo down on his bed and kissing him halfway silly. Feeling utterly strange and little off balance with all the weight on his head, Bilbo lets him with a sigh, tugging at Thorin's braids in turn and spreading his knees to let Thorin in.

He's still getting used to making love with Thorin –making love in _general_ is somewhat of an unusual affair for him, but with Thorin it's its own ordeal every time. He can't say he dislikes it, Thorin is as far as Bilbo can tell a considerate and skilled lover. It's just… still a little unusual and often slightly startling. Thorin is great deal to handle even when he's clothed, without a thing on him he's just… a lot.

"Are you happy here, Bilbo?" Thorin asks after, while Bilbo tries to regain his breath. There is something digging into his back – a runaway golden bead, he suspects.

"I am happiest I will ever be," Bilbo says quite honestly and strokes a clumsy hand over Thorin's broad shoulders. "And quite, quite satisfied with my lot in life, I assure you."

Thorin hums, mouthing at his neck, nosing at the golden bead. "There is nothing I would not do to make you happier," he swears. "Tell me what you want, anything you want, and give me the pleasure of giving it to you."

Bilbo sighs, stroking his fingers up the slightly damp skin of Thorin's neck, tracing the powerful muscles there before sinking his fingers into Thorin's hair. "Lay down beside me, and just be," he says. "Be content and happy and safe, and I will be as happy as you're ever likely to find me."

Thorin makes a noise that's half a laugh and half a displeased groan, but he does just that, lying on his side beside Bilbo, their legs tangled together, the air hot between them. "That is not what I mean," he complains, hands wandering over Bilbo's bare side and back. "I want to give you something."

Something concrete and tangible that he can then look at and think, _I gave that to Bilbo and what I gave him made him happy_. Bilbo sighs and lifts his arm to rest his head on the crook of his elbow and looks at his sweaty lover. "Alright then – I want tailored clothing, made to my liking," Bilbo says. "Your dwarven clothes are fine and I'm happy to have them, but I fear they aren't made for someone of my stature. I want clothes that fit me and look how I like them to look."

Thorin relaxes. "Yes, yes, I will have that done, yes," he says, pleased and leans in to kiss Bilbo's lips. "First thing in the morning, I'll send for Dori and he can see to it. No, I will do it now –"

"In the morning, you silly dwarf," Bilbo says and pulls him back down. "Now stay still and just lie down with me."

"I could lie down with you, and _not_ stay still," Thorin murmurs with a suggestive grin.

Bilbo considers it and then shoves at his shoulder. "Sleep, you horny lunatic."

Thorin settles down with an amused chuckle and rests his head on the pillow. Closing his eyes, he sighs. "I am, aren't I? A lunatic."

Bilbo sighs and strokes his hand through Thorin's hair. "Well if you are, then you're my lunatic. And I wouldn't have you any other way."

Lying, like killing, is becoming frighteningly easy these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay i finally could add _the tag_


	12. Chapter 12

Bilbo stands on a stool – or rather on a stool that's on a table – while Dori goes around him taking measurements and humming to himself when Bilbo tries to explain what he wants for his clothing.

"I understand if it's not very feasible here," Bilbo admits, sighing at the memory of proper hobbitish waistcoats and dinner jackets. "I suppose I'd look very foolish, among dwarves, here, in that get up."

"Yes, you would – you would look like hobbit that's a long way from home, rather than a hobbit of Erebor," Dori answers while measuring the length of Bilbo's arms. "You have appearances to keep now, you know. Can't go around looking like a complete foreigner."

"Appearances," Bilbo repeats and sighs. He does, doesn't he? Whatever he is, Thorin's illicit lover or the future Lord of the Southern County of the Lonely Mountain and Lord of Ravenhill and whatever else Thorin thought to pile up on him… he has appearances to keep. "And appearances are very important."

"What you are and how you present yourself reflects on Thorin," Dori says frankly. "Can't go around looking like you don't want to be here and like you disdain the society you keep, can you."

Bilbo sighs again. "No," he agrees and bows his head a little. "No, I suppose I can't."

Dori pauses in the act of measuring his shoulders and steps back, throwing the measuring tape over his shoulder and folding his arms, looking Bilbo over. "I can throw together something like what you wore at the start of the quest for you to wear in private, but in public you need to look your part," he says. "Which is what, nowadays?"

Bilbo lifts his eyes and then his brows, confused. "I'm sorry?"

Dori gives him a flat look. "Are you Thorin's concubine?"

Bilbo chokes a little at that and the meticulously dressed and braided dwarf rolls his eyes. "I know you are more than that, everyone knows you are more," he says impatiently. "But you're not making it very clear what you're supposed to be. Are you Thorin's lover, his concubine, his advisor, councillor – a lord of his court? All of whom, I'll have you know, would dress differently."

"Oh dear," Bilbo says, running a hand over his face. "Do people think I'm Thorin's concubine?"

"They did, before the rumours of lordships started," Dori says and shakes his head. "It's a neat enough box to throw you in. You haven't much of a beard but you look girly enough – put nice clothes on you, grow your hair out, throw some… proper braids," he gives a judgemental looks to the ones Thorin braided in, "and you'll pass for a pretty lass, easy enough."

"Oh, good grief," Bilbo answers, rather horrified.

Dori snorts at him and then turns to rummage through Bilbo's discarded clothes. "It's how I dressed you as in the beginning," he says and unfurls the grey, fur lined cape. "Light tones, greys, whites, light blues, things to accent your features," he says and holds out the cloth. "A Lord would wear stronger colours, darker colours. Red is popular – you had a red coat before."

"Yes, may it rest in peace wherever I lost it," Bilbo sighs.

"In pieces, more like," Dori says, measuring the cape against Bilbo's shoulder and then shaking his head. "So which is it – a lover or a lord?"

Bilbo shakes his head and then considers it. Concubine – for heaven's sake – might work better to his benefit. Who would suspect a concubine of the things he's doing, these days? But Thorin is intent on making a lord out of him too, for which he might need something more authority affirming. "I don't suppose there is a way to safely straddle that line?" Bilbo asks.

"A concubine turned lord by an amorous king that doesn't know much better?" Dori asks flatly. "My, you're not hiding anything, are you?"

"I'm not – oh, gracious, my life sounds terribly scandalous when you put it like that," Bilbo bemoans.

Dori snorts at him and drops the cape onto the floor. He hums and walks around Bilbo. "So something lordly but with undertone of a bedchamber. I think I can do that. Should we keep the Mithril on display?"

"I think we better, yes," Bilbo sighs. Thorin likes looking at it almost as much as he likes taking it off.

"Hmm," Dori hums, picking up the Mithril shirt – and with it, the belt Bilbo wears over it. Sting's sheath is attached to it, along with his new, daintier, dagger. "Hmmm," the dwarf hums again, more judgemental this time, and takes the knife out in sharp tug.

Bilbo glances his way and frowns. Everyone in Erebor wears a whole arrangement of weaponry – Thorin is back to carrying Orcrist with him wherever he goes and Dáin never puts his hammer down. So he hadn't thought twice about adding the new knife Nori had gotten him to his arsenal.

"Something wrong?" Bilbo asks.

Dori doesn't answer, taking out a pure white handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the blade down, checking the result on the handkerchief.

Then he turns to Bilbo – and on his other hand there is another handkerchief – this one dark with dried blood.

"I wondered about this," Dori muses, straightening out the encrusted, balled up cloth. "It's not a small sum of blood. Could've been from a nick, but you can tell by the shape of the stains – this was used to wipe down a blade."

Bilbo stares, his eyes widening. That was the handkerchief he'd wiped the blade down after Tegel – oh damn it, he left the damn thing in his pocket?

"And here you have a blade with blood on it. Blade which I know rather well," Dori says almost conversationally and gives him a look as he re-sheathes the blade with comfortable a snap. "Nori gave it to you?"

"How do you…" Bilbo trails off, worried, frowning.

"Nori forgets who taught him," Dori says and holds the sheathed knife out to him. "Who did you knife with this?"

Bilbo hesitates for a moment, watching him. Dori doesn't seem alarmed or even worried – just vaguely irritated, as he almost always is. "Um… it was a man in Dale, who was causing trouble," Bilbo says and accepts the knife.

Dori arches a single silver brow at that. "I see," he says, judging but not asking more. He considers the blade instead. "Well, I'm glad he got you a good blade at least, even if he stole it from me to give it to you. Never mind, my days of using dainty weaponry are long over," he says and considers Bilbo from top to bottom. "Is it likely to become a common occurrence, you knifing people in Dale?"

Bilbo looks down a the blade and then looks at Dori. "It might," he admits and turns the sheath in his hand. "Dori, do you mean to say that you…"

The dwarf looks at him steadily. "I didn't go around knifing people as habit, if that's what you're asking," he says. "I used weapons befitting my stature and my station in life, is all. Slender blades, dainty daggers – courtesan's weapons."

Bilbo blinks slowly at that. "You – I'm sorry, you're – "

Dori blinks back. "Oh, you didn't know? Why do you think I'm the one dressing you?"

"I figured it's because… you were a tailor?" Bilbo says confusedly.

"Men would call me a _seamstress_ with all the appropriate winking and elbowing. I was a courtesan, entertainer and companion to the lonely lords of the Blue Mountains," Dori says without shred of shame or sadness. "A very high class whore, you might say."

"I would not say, never, not of you," Bilbo says, not sure if he's supposed to be horrified or not. Dori sounds so _frank_ about it, it's hard to feel shame for him.

"Oh, I'm not embarrassed about it," Dori scoffs, amused. "It's not shameful occupation, among dwarven kind, and it paid enough to keep my brothers clothed and fed, and sometimes that's a height of luxury on it's own. Get to certain level – get to the level where you're entertaining Dwarves Kings as part of your job – and it's downright respectable."

Bilbo's eyes widen.

"Oh, stand down – Thorin had no interest in things of such nature," Dori rolls his eyes. "He was away from the Blue Mountains more than he was present at any rate. Still, it allots me a certain know-how when it comes to situations like yours. Even the knife."

"The knife," Bilbo repeats and frowns. "You have know how about… assassination?"

Dori's eyebrows arch again, surprised. "Well, not quite something of that nature, but it's a precarious form of occupation, being a courtesan. People like me can hear and see things we're not supposed to," he explains. "And sometimes, it's easier to silence us on the tip of a blade rather than on the gleam of gold, regardless of how trustworthy we're proven to be. You learn to protect yourself. Hence the weapons carried out on open and more hidden besides."

"I see," Bilbo says, thoughtful, trying to wrap his mind around it and rather failing. He knows men have… companions like Dori – Bree had a very famous brothel, even, which was forever the source of scandalous tales whispered amongst young hobbits. Hobbits didn't have such occupations, though – somehow that never gained root in Shire.

Dori walks around him, considering him. "You might do with having some hidden weaponry yourself, as it is. It's a precarious position you're in, whichever you lean more towards. The day Thorin marries is the day you'll find assassins after your own hide, you know."

Bilbo scoffs at that. As if Thorin would ever marry anyone Bilbo didn't approve off – and thus, she would know damn well what _her_ position in Thorin's life really was.

"Do you have other hidden weaponry?" Bilbo asks with interest.

Dori chuckles darkly. "Bilbo, I have a whole arsenal in my jewellery box alone. If you want some fitting for you in particular, though, you need to go to Bifur, not me."

"Bifur?" Bilbo asks with surprise.

"Mm-hmm, Bifur," Dori says and looks away, smiling a little. "You can't find a better craftsman when it comes to secret things than Bifur of the clan Ur. He made the weaponry for half the whores in Blue Mountains, and no one ever suspects him for it, of course – for the obvious reasons."

Bilbo thinks of the strange silence and muttered strands of confusing khuzdul – and the eerie gentleness one might sometimes glimpse, when Bifur could be spotted tinkering with bit of wood, carving a toy out of it. There is a childlike oddness to Bifur which makes him easy to dismiss. He often seems a little childlike and confused himself.

Was it on purpose?

"Is he…?" Bilbo frowns.

"Entirely trustworthy, from my experience," Dori says and then takes him in briskly. "I can see about asking him about what he might come up with – but for now, I am here to design you some clothes and I think it's time I get back to it. And I think I have some idea on what might suit your purposes. I understand hobbits rarely wear long coats – but what do you think of robes?"

* * *

 

The clothes Dori designs take a good week to complete, so it's a bit of a wait. In the meanwhile, Bilbo finds himself accosted by Bifur one afternoon while walking down a corridor in search of something to do with his time while Thorin is off sparring. The quiet dwarf barks at him something entirely confusing in khuzdul and then grabs his arm and stars taking measurements of his hand.

"Um, Bifur, what on earth-?" Bilbo asks and gets his hand wrenched to the side for his troubles, this way and that while Bifur measures the length of his fingers and then the width of his wrist and arm and then the length of his arm from wrist to elbow. Bilbo stares in astonishment as the white streaked dwarf takes his measurements roughly but deftly, confused as to what he's doing.

"Thakal irkat," the dwarf mumbles while spreading out Bilbo's fingers and taking more measurements. "Ni marak… _aye,_  tukt zigil tashfati..."

"Um," Bilbo says again as the dwarf nods in satisfaction.

"Rokât zigsun," the dwarf says, claps him heavily on the shoulder, and then marches off, muttering to himself as he goes, leaving Bilbo holding his arm out for no one in the empty hallway.

"Okay then," Bilbo says, shaking his head in confusion. "Good talking to you, Bifur."

* * *

 

Dori outdoes himself with the clothes and Bilbo is both surprised and happy to find that he does manage to add a hint of hobbitness into the design.

A set of normal, fairly hobbit-like slacks that end just under the knee – they fit Bilbo far better than anything more dwarven in design. A white tunic – which is more of a robe really – goes over it, with tails that reach nearly his feet.

"It gives you a bit of an airy look, not uncommon with courtesans and not a bad look for a concubine," Dori deems it, while adjusting the length so that the tails, making them slightly shorter in the front so they're not in Bilbo's way.

The Mithril shirt goes over the white robe, carefully adjusted so that the collar of the robe shows just so past the collar of the mail. Dori does few adjustments there and then brings out a darker grey sleeveless jerkin that goes over the shirt – it has an _indecently_ low neckline that shows plenty of the Mithril but not all of it.

"Sometimes hint and allure of a thing is more valuable than just flaunting all of it for all the world to see. Better to suggest hidden treasures, than to spread them all out on the table, as you say," Dori says, satisfied, adjusting the tails of the jerkin over the tails of the robe underneath and then he brings out the coat.

The coat is nearly the same shade of red as Bilbo's own, which had been a proper hobbit coat. It too has tails like the robe and the jerkin – it also has fur at the collar and lapels, as most dwarven clothes do, white fur that runs the length of the cloth in streaks that, apparently, extenuate the lines of Bilbo's body. There is a hint firmness there too – the chest of the coat is cut in angular shapes and it has sharp shoulders, which give a suggestion of pauldrons. It also has a flared collar which skill fully leads the gaze of an onlooker down, and to the Mithril shirt.

"Now, here," Dori says and takes out a beautifully carved wooden box. "Your weapons, M'lord."

"I have my sword and my dagger," Bilbo says and then trails off.

In the box there’s jewellery – sharp sticks with gems hanging off them, combs which look more like saws, little holsters of slender, almost pen-like blades, "Throwing knives, if you have any skill at it," Dori explains, setting them aside. There are chains with hoops at the end – garrottes – there is another knife – to match the other Bilbo has – and then there are gauntlets. They are beautiful, artfully embossed leather with some metal plates for reinforcement, but they're not weapons… at least Bilbo doesn't think they are.

"Courtesy of Bifur," Dori says while forcing Bilbo's arm into the first gauntlet, easing his fingers into their proper places, binding the gauntlet down over all the cloth with brisk snaps of belts. Then, as Bilbo eyes the thing in confusion, Dori tilts his hand sharply back and against the outer arm side of the gauntlet.

There is a sharp snap and suddenly there is a blade protruding from the gauntlet just under Bilbo's wrist, a slender length of silver-shaded metal, honed to a razor sharpness.

"Holy…" Bilbo whispers and tests the blade. It sits firm as anything there, extending from the gauntlet. He could thrust it into something, and it would stay firm.

"The things Bifur can make," Dori says with satisfaction. "There's a switch there, on the back – tilt your hand against it and the blade will retract."

Bilbo does as ordered, until he feels the press of a switch against the back of his palm and the blade indeed retraces, and then the gauntlet looks like… just a gauntlet. It has a sort of glove attached to it, and reinforcement on the backside – Bilbo could punch a wall with the thing and it probably wouldn't hurt.

"This is amazing," Bilbo murmurs, tilting his hand back sharply again and watching the blade _snick_ out and then back in, quick and smooth. "It's a little _much_."

"Little insurance, in case you get stripped of your other weapons," Dori says and eases the other gauntlet on the same – it too has a knife hidden within it. "Now, time to do your hair."

"What's wrong with my hair," Bilbo asks rather defensively. "Thorin braided my hair."

Dori gives it a look. "Yes, and Thorin still braids hair like an exiled, disgraced prince, not like a King he is. And you're neither of those things."

Dori then proceeds to do as said, and braids Bilbo's hair. Bilbo sits still for it, frowning a little as he feels big dwarven fingers working at the short strands of his hair, binding them back deftly. "There is meaning to how hair is braided, isn't there?"

"Station begets intricacy," Dori says. "Wealthy dwarves have the money to have their hair done up by professionals, beaded with gold and gems – not that Thorin has ever made use of it. He forgets propriety, these days."

"He forgets a lot of things," Bilbo says, frowning. "Should I remind him?"

"Yes," Dori says flatly. "Especially if more official guests arrive. Never mind the crown and gold encrusted coats – he still looks like a beggar most of the time. Makes my fingers itch, to look at the man sometimes."

Bilbo glances back at Dori, at his very complicated braiding, and then looks away, smiling. "I'll speak to him about it, then," Bilbo says. "You're a rich dwarf now, though. You don't need to be braiding people's hair. Not mine, either."

"Bah," Dori says and his fingers still for a moment. "Truth to the matter is, I'm bored. I'm no artisan or smith and I know not one jot about mining. There's no use for my skills here, same as Nori – Thorin doesn't even keep court or dine in company, so I can't entertain, or host, nothing. And I am bored making inventory. This," he says and continues braiding. "This suits me much better."

"As part of the company you have a place in Thorin's council," Bilbo comments, glancing at him again. "That's a job plenty, in my experience."

"Yes, but I have nothing to contribute to it," Dori says with a scoff. "One day I might see if I might take the position of Master of Staff within the King's Halls, it might suit me well… granted, of course, that this mountain will ever function as proper kingdom, never mind having a King's Hall."

"I'm sorry, I don't know what any of that means," Bilbo says and sighs. "There are lot of things I don't know, it turns out, about any of this."

Dori says nothing for a moment and then hums in agreement. "A King's Hall is expected to carry out certain functions," he says. "Rule of the kingdom, of course, but also it's appearances. Dinners, parties, balls among other things – the King's Hall houses the royal and noble guests and sees to their needs, as well as needs to the royal family and the attached family. Concubines included. It's basically Thorin's Household I mean."

"And you want to manage it?" Bilbo asks, wondering. "It sounds like a lot of work."

"Lot of work that is not being done, because currently there is no proper King's Hall. But to host a proper royal celebration," Dori murmurs. "Now that would be something, wouldn't it?"

Bilbo hums. To him it sounds like a nightmare – a Bag End Social, times a _dwarven kingdom._ But Dori is a whole different beast from him, maybe he really would enjoy something like that. "Tell me more," Bilbo says. "Tell me about the duties and functions of a King's Hall, and how it comes together."

"Well, first you need a staff of servants," Dori says and explains the whole long litany of proper attendants and servants, pages, handmaidens, courtiers and all the actual nobility that together forms the King's Hall – sometimes councillors and elders of the kingdom are also included. Bilbo listens intently, wondering about why he hasn't ever heard of any of it – why Thorin has never said or done anything about it. Though of course, he knows why.

"The rule of a Kingdom rests in the King's hands, of course, and in the counsel of his council and advisors – but the King's reputation… rests in his Hall," Dori says and rests his hands on Bilbo's shoulders. "I can have Ori give you the proper official rundown of duties and whatnot, he's been going through the records. Now though, your hair is done, go and have a look."

Bilbo rises, feeling weirdly heavy and at the same time airy in his new clothes and gear, top heavy and light on his feet, which is just as well. He heads to the bathroom to have a look in the mirror there and then stops to stare.

Dori has taken the braids Thorin had put in and somehow made them seem bigger and thicker, giving them a width over his ears that almost suggest a beard Bilbo can't grow. On the back, Dori has braided his hair so that it seems to continue the shape of Bilbo's ears in lines of braids that join at the back of his head in a knot that Dori has enhanced with beads and then skewered with the sharp jewellery needles. Hair sticks, Bilbo muses, that's what they are, if lot sharper and dangerous than the ones his mother used to wear.

It's completely unhobbitish, all of it, but by dwarven standards… it's not half bad. And it certainly suits the somewhat lavish clothes he wear – and the image he is seeking to present.

"You're growing out your hair, aren't you?" Dori asks when Bilbo wanders out again, running his fingers along the complicated braids. "Good. How long does hobbit hair grow?"

"It grows as long as it grows," Bilbo says, shaking his head in wonder. "My grandmother had hair she could sit on."

"Good, get yours to that length and I can give you a proper hairdressing," Dori says. "Now, how do hobbits feel about piercing their ears? Because you could do with some earrings."

"Uhm, generally neutral," Bilbo says, frowning and tugging at his ears. "Men generally don't pierce their ears but… It would suit this look, wouldn't it, something shiny to dangle on my ears…"

Dori hums in agreement. "It would be even better if you got Thorin to forge that something," he says. "It'd present a certain image."

Of a concubine showered in jewellery and riches, Bilbo muses and sighs. "Yes, I reckon you're right," he says and lowers his hands. "I suppose there are ways I ought to be acting too, as… as _this,_ " he motions at himself.

"I can't tell you about that, but if you want to learn to be and behave like a courtesan, I can teach you a thing or two," Dori says and folds his arms. "It's not so dissimilar, I suppose, and if you walk the walk and talk the talk… I figure no one will have reason to look beyond that. And you are foreigner besides, so some slips might be forgiven for that."

Bilbo nods. "Then I'd appreciate your guidance," he says and runs a hand over his new, lethal gauntlets. "Yours and Nori's, in whatever this is turning into."

"Mm-hmm," Dori agrees, looking him over. "Someone in this court needs to know how to manage it and it's not going to be Thorin, and it's definitely not Dáin," he says and shrugs fatalistically. "Might as well be you."

"Yes," Bilbo agrees and tilts his hand back, to watch the blade snick out again. "Might as well be me."


End file.
